


Anything Goes

by swooning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 65,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grumpy Professor, bushy-haired Unspeakable, love, lemons...and Cole Porter! </p><p>A post-Hogwarts fic, written before HBP...I started it then and decided to continue it in the halcyon universe in which it was begun. It was a happier time. </p><p>Originally posted in 2005 on Ashwinder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Concentrate on You

I Concentrate on You  
  
Whenever skies look gray to me  
And trouble begins to brew  
Whenever the winter winds begin to blow  
I concentrate on you  
  
When fortune cries nay, nay to me  
And people declare "You're through"  
Whenever the blues becomes my only song  
I concentrate on you  
  
On your smile so sweet, so tender  
When first my kiss you deny  
On the love in your eyes when you surrender  
And once again our arms intertwine  
  
And so when wise men say to me  
That love's young dream never comes true  
To prove that even wise men can be wrong  
I concentrate on you.

  
  
Snape was a man of few pleasures, none of them revealed to the outside world. His outside world, in this matter, included… well, everyone. From his earliest years he had learned to trust no one, to confide in no one, and to expect nothing from anyone but harsh words and harsher treatment. Confidences were for betraying, and only to oneself could one be honest. Snape also told himself that only  _to_  himself could he refrain from talking down, that the general mass of wizardkind were too idiotic to bother getting to know. And naturally, given that his main contact with wizardkind was with its teenagers or with its deviants, he had rarely found any evidence that he might be wrong.   
  
Still, Snape longed in his deep heart of hearts, the recesses of his mind where even the brutal Dark Lord and Dumbledore could not penetrate. He yearned… he pushed his yearning down with years of bitterness and spite, but could never completely extinguish it. If anything, the pressure of this effort had, over the years, only succeeded in turning this tiny grain of thought into something more refined, a pearl of hope, the constant nagging irritation and subsequent layering-on of nastiness turning contrarily into something beautiful. He knew it was there. He hated that it was there. It pained him like a wound that wouldn't heal. But he still yearned.   
  
Once, as a child, Snape had been introduced to his great-uncle Optimus, who was visiting from abroad. This uncle, his maternal grandmother’s brother, was a horror. An elderly, gaunt, and snaggle-toothed crow, he had the unkempt hair and hissing voice of a quietly murderous lunatic. With an evil gleam in his obsidian eyes, he snarled at young Severus to straighten up, to attend to the fire, to  _Get out of the room right now!_ , and the ten-year-old boy was terrified of him. Appealing to his mother, Severus got an answer he didn’t expect. “Wait until your great-aunt Hestia gets here,” she said with a smile Snape would now call wry. “I think you’ll get a surprise or two, then, dear.”   
  
This same great-aunt, it seemed, had been detained from starting the trip with her husband, but arrived to spend the following week. Young Severus was indeed surprised, and charmed, to find that his aunt was quite simply the most lovely, warm, kind, and vivacious person imaginable; in short, she was everything her husband was not. She was soft and round and dimpled, and always smelled like vanilla and flowers. She seemed to take a childlike joy in everything around her that belied her advanced age, and she also seemed nearly blind to any faults her ghastly husband might demonstrate. When that dour person came to greet her on her arrival, Aunt Hestia looked up when she heard him grunt "took you long enough," smiled as though her world were finally complete, and flung her arms around Optimus in an impulsive hug. All week long, when Optimus snarled, she smiled indulgently and stroked his hand to soothe him. When Optimus grumped, she looked at him with a wry smile and a curiously happy sigh, murmured “I love you,” chided and corrected him with a firm but loving word or two, and went on her way.   
  
But what impressed Severus most, in the end, was not his aunt at all. It was his uncle, watching his aunt when he thought she wouldn’t notice him doing it. Old Optimus hardly had a moment to spare for snapping at his grandnephew, so absorbed was he in paying constant attention to his wife while remaining seemingly uninterested. Following her with his eyes, every second she shared any room with him, leaping up to hold her coat or open a door, stopping to show her a passage in a book he was reading, and leading her up the stairs to the guest room each night with his grim head inclined to catch her every cheerful word. When Severus heard his frightening uncle actually chuckling at a silly joke his sweet wife had made, the boy was flabbergasted. Severus’ mother smiled at his wonder, and he was not too young to hear the bittersweet envy in her voice when she said that her aunt and uncle were the happiest couple she knew. They had been married, at that time, for over seventy years.  
  
A few years later, Hestia died peacefully in her sleep. When he received the news that his uncle had only survived her by two weeks, Severus understood perfectly. She had been his life; she had been the one person who saw him for the person he longed to be, perhaps actually was, deep down. For her, and for her alone, he became that person. And so even now, when Severus yearned, he was usually thinking of this elderly witch and her hideous husband. His strange romantic fantasy was thwarted by his own certainty that, unlike Optimus, he was not secretly worthy of a love like the one his uncle had found. Thwarted, too, by his general low opinion of the witches he met, who were all too dimwitted or too vapid to bother paying attention to. Of course, most of the witches he met in his line of work were also still in the throes of teenaged hormonal tempests, and held no interest for him at all. Toothsome though some of the Hogwarts lasses might be, their looks could never make up for their total lack of intelligence.   
  
Ironic, really, that the one outstanding mind to come through Hogwarts during his teaching career belonged to the most annoying student to come through the school in all that time. The insufferable know-it-all. And, to make matters worse, now even his summer holidays were plagued by Hermione Granger and her two boy escorts, Potter and Weasley. They had arrived, one by one, at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, where he found himself in the unlikely position of chaperoning them during the course of one interminable afternoon prior to the start of their seventh year at Hogwarts.  _Their last year_ , he reminded himself with relief.   
  
Even for August, the days had been hot. Inside the Black mansion, the thick atmosphere grew stifling, and the smell of mould from the heavy old curtains and tapestries became almost overpowering in the humidity. All week, the boys had been nagging to go to Diagon Alley for their final purchase of school supplies, and at last Hagrid had obliged by taking them. Although all three students had obtained their Apparation licenses as soon as they could arrange it after turning seventeen, the Order kept comings and goings from their headquarters to a minimum in the interest of security, and Harry was never allowed into London without an Order member, so the trip was a rare treat for the two young men. Hermione, overcome by the heat, had just flapped her hand listlessly and bid them to have a good time; she had already purchased her school books, but had asked them to bring her back a particular piece of "light reading" she'd special-ordered from Flourish & Blotts. She snatched up the parcel straightaway upon their return, and had not been seen by them since.  
  
 _School supplies indeed_ , thought Snape as he passed the doorway to the room where the two boys were camped. Each had a stack of new Chocolate Frog cards, and one of the slippery amphibian sweets was making a break for it off the bed while the two howled in laughter over the newly updated Gilderoy Lockhart card.   
  
“Look, 'currently making great progress with his extended recovery,'” snorted Ron. “The prat still doesn’t even know his own name. Hey, look, he’s doing it again!” and Ron held the card up so Harry (and Snape, by chance) could see the Lockhart in the photo peering down at his printed name, scratching his head, and smiling dubiously before stretching back into his trademark glamour-grin for the camera.  
  
Snape slunk by, heading silently downstairs to the study, hoping for a few quiet hours and a chance to find something interesting to read. He wanted something to take his mind off the impending term, and the fact that the two guffawing buffoons upstairs would be returning to Hogwarts at the same time he did. Something engaging and thought-provoking.  _Something like this,_  he thought, picking up the book that someone had left open and face-down on the arm of the musty leather armchair that took up most of one corner of the dim study.   
  
“Ars, Physica, Sapientia,” he read from the cover, and then flipped to the flyleaf. “The art, science, and wisdom of original spell creation and substantive spell modification, and the philosophy and ethics of spell origination. Perfect.” Within a few minutes, he was completely wrapped up in the book, his spiky frame hunched in the oversized chair, oblivious to his surroundings.   
  
“Have you gotten past the dire warnings yet, sir?” A quiet, amused voice asked him, startling him into awareness sometime later. “The first two chapters are rather grim, but it picks up after that.” Hermione Granger was standing beside the chair, a cold butterbeer in her hand, looking down at the professor with something almost like a smile. He countered with something quite like a sneer.   
  
“Miss Granger. How true to form. Even outside school, you feel compelled to demonstrate your knowledge on every conceivable subject. One might suspect you of trying to overcompensate for a poor self-image.” Sneer still firmly in place, Snape pointedly resumed reading. After a moment he realized Hermione was still standing by the chair, and he turned his sneer back in her direction. “Well?” he growled. Why was she smiling like that?  _Impertinent baggage._  
  
“Well… only that's my book, you see, Professor. My light reading? Harry and Ron just picked it up for me today, and I was rather enjoying it.” Hermione bit her bottom lip and cast her eyes down, suddenly less certain of herself. “You’re welcome to borrow it when I’m through, I suppose. Sir.” She peered up at Snape, and was startled to see that the sneer had disappeared. In its place was a look she couldn’t quite put a name to, a most un-Snape-like look. She paused, sipping her butterbeer to give her hand and mouth something to do, and wondered briefly what on earth had possessed her to offer to lend Professor Snape a book… as if he’d have any interest in a book of hers.  
  
Many, many thoughts were suddenly vying for attention in Snape’s brain. Old thoughts he hadn’t faced in years, a few entirely new thoughts, and some thoughts that even Snape -- master of specifics -- could not pin down. First off, the girl in front of him was smart. Very smart. For the first time, he admitted to himself that she was quite possibly smarter than he was. That her know-it-all attitude was in part born of a fierce desire to prove herself to herself, a desire he understood only too well. Also for the first time, he noticed that she was no longer a little girl. All of a sudden, Snape realized why some of his colleagues would risk their careers to dally with their teenaged students. He, himself, never would or could consider it. She was his student, and the set of “students” could never converge with the set of “objects of desire.” But seeing her here, in a nearly-sheer, white, sleeveless, summer blouse, seeing the way a fine sheen of sweat shimmered on her neck, seeing her mouth curve around the bottle as she took a nervous swig of butterbeer, Snape had a flash of understanding. More oddly, for some reason he thought of his Aunt Hestia and her firm kindness. Her smell of vanilla and flowers. Her fearlessness. Or rather, her bravery.   
  
He had lowered the book and let it fall closed in his hand, but one long finger rested inside at the place he’d left off. Reluctantly, he held the volume out to her, slipping his hand free as she took it from him. Hermione was momentarily entranced by his lean, strong hand sliding over the smooth leather of the book’s cover. This had happened before, in Potions, but she really had no idea why she always got a little frisson when she caught a glimpse of her professor’s hand in unrehearsed motion. Mentally she shook her head, clearing the sensation, as Snape finally spoke in a frosty tone with which she was painfully familiar from years of sitting in his class.  
  
“As I have not yet passed the dire warnings, I would indeed like to borrow this from you, Miss Granger. Perhaps, in the meantime, you can make further use of your time here by relating to me, in the form of an essay of no fewer than two scrolls in length, a contrast and comparison of this text with the standard Potions curriculum it has been my weary task to teach you these past six years.” He stalked to the door and turned back, scowling. “Unless, of course, you prefer to spend your summer on the same sorts of frivolous pursuits as your two semiliterate companions?” Swooping down, he snatched at a small object on the floor and brought it back up pinched between two fingers.   
  
Hermione couldn’t help herself. At the sight of the stormy Potions master menacing the unfortunate Chocolate Frog, she hooted indecorously, then slapped her hand over her mouth to prevent further laughter from escaping. Snape’s demeanor darkened still further, and he let his glare sink into Hermione’s eyes for several tense seconds before, with a snap, he popped the frog into his mouth, arched an eyebrow challengingly, and swept away with his robes whipping after him. Behind him, as he headed back to his room, he heard Hermione burst into surprised laughter. And for the first time in his life, he actually didn't mind the sound of someone having a laugh at his expense. 


	2. All Through the Night

All Through the Night  
  
The day is my enemy, the night my friend,  
For I'm always so alone 'til the day draws to an end.  
But when the sun goes down and the moon comes through,  
To the monotone of the evening's drone  
I'm all alone with you.  
  
All through the night, I delight in your love,  
All through the night, you're so close to me.  
All through the night, from a height far above,  
You and your love bring me ecstasy.  
  
When dawn comes to waken me you're never there at all.  
I know you've forsaken me, 'til the shadows fall.  
But then once again   
I can dream,  
I've the right   
To be close to you  
All through the night.  
  
  
  
 _It started the way it always did, with the hands. Doing something not rehearsed, something not meant to be watched. This time in particular, it was grading. One hand holding a quill, so delicately that the fine down near the nib was hardly mussed, and the other with long fingers splayed out, fixing a hapless essay to the mahogany desk while he wrote an almost certainly scathing comment on it. From time to time, he would flex those slender, muscular digits, causing the knuckles at their bases to raise and whiten briefly. This was what happened, just as Hermione looked up, and as she saw that fleeting tension race through his hand, she felt a corresponding pull in her nipples and groin, and felt herself growing wet with anticipation. She realized the classroom was empty of students, and without hesitation she slid from her seat and walked toward the desk at the front of the room. He didn’t look up as she neared him, but kept scrawling his ferocious remarks on the much-abused scroll, scowling as he did.  
  
Suddenly Hermione found herself looking up at his eyes from a prone position on the desk, which was now the desk in his office. His hand, still splayed out, now flexed and massaged her breast. Her nipple, already erect from the cold of the dungeon, tightened further and tingled. Fleetingly she realized she was naked, but somehow didn’t seem to mind much. Glancing down at her body, she also saw dimly that her stomach bore a few remarks in Snape’s handwriting, in the distinctive scarlet he always used for grading. He was still holding the quill. Snape distracted her from these thoughts, burying his face in her neck, trailing kisses across her collarbones and down the swell of her breasts to circle her areolas. His long, lank hair fell forward, covering his face so that only his protuberant nose poked out. Teasing, flicking his tongue over her nipples and smirking when she gasped, he raised his writing hand and brought the feather end of the quill to brush and tickle over her stomach. The tickling sensation changed abruptly as the quill drifted lower, and Hermione’s young body ached with need for the release that followed explosively a moment later._   
  
With a gasp, she sat bolt upright in bed, disoriented.  _Bed. Gryffindor red curtains. MY bed. My god, I feel so…_ She snatched her hand away from her crotch, where it had evidently strayed during the dream.  _The dream. What was that about, agai—oh, ruddy hell._

  
***

  
“I just don’t see why you’re so fussed about it, Hermione,” Ginny snapped irritably. “You’re probably the only girl left in the school who's never had a hot dream about Snape.”   
  
“Shhh! Not so loud, someone’ll hear us.” Hermione snuck furtive looks around the Gryffindor common room, but nobody seemed interested in their conversation. “It's  _Professor_  Snape. And you can’t be serious. It’s disgusting. He’s our teacher. And he’s so… horrible.”   
  
“For Merlin’s sake, if you don’t believe me, go ask Lavender about it. She and some girl in Ravenclaw started a running cartoon strip about it a few years ago. They circulate it in secret at least twice a term.” Ginny tapped her quill against the inkwell by her unwritten essay, and cast a few of her own surreptitious looks around the room.   
  
“What? I’m Head Girl. I’ve been a prefect since fifth year. How come I never heard of this?”  
  
“Wouldn’t be much of a secret if they told the prefects and the Head Girl, would it, then?” replied Ginny snappishly.  
  
“But Ginny…  _you’re_  a prefect.”   
  
“Point taken.” She looked thoughtful. “It isn’t very good, anyway. Lavender can’t draw a bath, much less the Potions Master naked. You haven’t been missing much.”  
  
“But I think you have. Look, don't you see, I’ve never even done any of that, what was in the dream, much less the… the ending bit. And I reckon you know all about this subject. So what does it mean, Ginny? Does this mean I’m really in love with… Professor Snape?” Hermione shuddered at the very words. Ginny frowned, looking at her friend as if judging her possible reaction, before speaking again.   
  
“Do you want to know the truth, Hermione?” She dropped her voice and leaned in over the table. “The truth is, I don’t know anything about anything. It’s all talk. The truth is, when I started going out with Dean Thomas, that was pretty much the end of my sex life for the next few years. He tried a few times, but his heart wasn't really in it. He never pushed beyond a little petting. If you ask me, I think he'll be coming out of the closet after he leaves school. But since we'd been going out for so long, everyone assumed… everything. And what was I supposed to say? I'd have loved to, but my longtime boyfriend just doesn't seem to think of me that way? It was too embarrassing. So I just let everybody believe what they wanted to believe. I've only been out with a few blokes since last summer, and I think they've all told some creative stories about what happened on our dates, but none of it's true." She gave a sigh, relieved to tell her friend the truth. Hermione clapped her mouth shut, but still looked stunned by the revelation. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? If this gets out, think what it will do to my reputation as the succubus of Hogwarts.”  
  
“But… why? Why didn’t you say something? I mean, if they’d all known, you wouldn't have…" Hermione stopped as she thought about just how Ginny would have phrased her response… and realized there was no good way to say it without betraying Dean or making herself feel foolish.   
  
“Please,  _please_ , don’t say anything, all right? I know it’s stupid. And what my brothers actually did even with the limited and very wrong information they had was bad enough. But because they thought I’d just been a slut, not a wronged virgin, they only had it out with me, not Dean or any of the others. And I’m used to them. I should have had it out with Dean myself at the time. But I didn’t, and now… look, can you tell me something?”   
  
“Trying to change the subject? Okay, what can I tell you?”  
  
“Well, in the dream, I was just really wondering. What was, um… well, I just couldn’t help being curious about the, ah…”  
  
“The ending bit, you mean?” Hermione blushed, as she remembered that bit, but Ginny just waved her hand impatiently.   
  
“No, no,” she said, “I already told you, we’ve all had wet dreams about Snape before. I’m no slut, but I’m not as thick as you evidently are about all that. Orgasms I've had. No, what I really wondered was, you said he had written something on your stomach with his grading quill. So…  _what mark did he give you?_ ”

  
***

 

“…and this is a very popular examination item, so pay close attention if you intend to score as well as I expect of all my N.E.W.T. students next month.” The orders from the front of the Potions dungeon sounded particularly growly and nice today, mused Hermione as she rested her chin on her hand and gazed at her professor, mesmerized by his voice. A moment later she snapped to attention  _(Oh gods, what was I thinking? What did he just ask us?!)_  as she realized he had kept talking, and she had missed a question. She, Hermione Granger, the know-it-all, had missed a question. Her hand, shooting up as if by reflex, paused midway to make a show of scratching the tip of her nose. Looking around the room for a victim, at first pretending as usual to ignore her, Snape homed in on her momentary lapse like a bird of prey homing in on a wounded mouse. He spotted, he stooped, and he attacked.   
  
“Miss... Granger,” he intoned, coming to a halt in front of her worktable.   
  
“I didn’t have my hand up, Professor,” Hermione attempted, regretting the words even as they passed her lips. From two tables over, she heard Draco Malfoy snicker openly. She couldn’t fathom the look on Snape’s face, but anticipated the worst. Her heart pounded, but she proudly raised her chin and met his eyes. And passed a very odd moment, as she put a word to the strange look, the same look she had seen on the professor’s thin, drawn, face in the study at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. But why would the snarky Potions master look… _wistful_? The moment passed, and his next words were as waspish as ever.   
  
“Do you know the answer, Miss Granger, regardless of whether you saw fit to raise your eager little hand?”  
  
“Sir, I didn’t hear the question,” she admitted bravely, still holding her head up. She heard the collective gasp as the other students registered their shock. Snape opened his mouth and started to speak, then stopped. After another thoughtful moment, he tilted his head to the side and contemplated her with once-again fathomless black eyes as he delivered his sentence.   
  
“Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger. And for your inattentiveness, in place of detention, I’m going to give you something much worse.” The silence in the room was palpable, the students all straining to hear what Snape would consider worse than one of his detentions.   
  
“Yes, Professor?” Hermione squeaked, her nerves betraying her.   
  
 _“I’m not going to tell you what the question was,”_  he said silkily, a tiny, cruel smile curving his lips. “And what’s more, I will give a detention to the first student I find has told Miss Granger, now or at any time, what the question was. Class dismissed.”   
  
Puzzled, the students filed out, sure they had missed something. Draco, in particular, glared at his godfather, clearly wondering why no nasty detention awaited his rival. Only those who knew Hermione well knew how keenly Snape had gauged her reaction to this punishment.  
  
“That was cold, really cold,” Ron summed up, as he listened to Harry’s retelling of the incident at lunch. He glared up to the head table, where the object of his ire ate lunch in total unconcern.   
  
“Do you want us to tell you, Hermione? We could probably figure out a way…” Harry offered, but Hermione put her foot down immediately.   
  
“He’d know. I don’t know how, but he’d know. I don’t want you to take a chance, not with the points the way they are.” A glance at the hourglasses on the wall showed Slytherin well in first, not uncommon for this time of year, and Gryffindor only a distant second, close to being overtaken by Ravenclaw. “Besides,” she continued, “it’s a punishment. And to give Professor Snape credit, it’s a really appropriate one. And I was… woolgathering. I think I just have to take it.” She leaned away to answer Ginny’s whispered question, leaving the boys to continue their earlier discussion of which professional Quidditch teams would be making the finals. Fortunately for their own happiness, they were too engrossed to see the blush that raced over Hermione’s face as she answered Ginny’s question about the subject of the “woolgathering.” Even more fortunate were they, not to hear her answer. 

  
***

 

Hermione knew the first-year double Potions class was nearing an end, and she hovered near the door to wait, her slight trepidation building slowly to a substantial case of nerves.  
  
She heard the Potions Master’s voice, low as usual, purr the final instructions of ingredient preparation for the Forgetfulness Potion. Through the open door to the dungeon, she watched him prowl from the front to the back of the room, methodically viewing the work of each student pair as he swept past. She was surprised when he acknowledged her with a pricked eyebrow, and then gestured for her to come into the room. With another wave of his hand, he indicated she should sit at an unoccupied table in the back, from which she happened to have an excellent view of the potion being brewed by young Duncan Creevey, the newest Creevey to be sorted into Gryffindor. His fine chopping still needed a great deal of work, she noticed. His uneven pile of lovage looked more like a salad than a potions ingredient.  
  
Snape seemed to notice, too, glancing down at Creevey’s table with a scowl as he passed by in his circuit of the room. Then, looking up, he saw the direction of Hermione’s gaze, and the tiny frown on her face, and knew that the girl’s sharp eyes had also caught the chopping deficit. Their eyes met, and for the briefest second each registered the other’s amusement. Then it passed, and Snape moved on. By the time the class was over, Hermione almost believed she’d imagined it.  
  
As the students tidied up, and Snape oversaw the proper storing of their prepared ingredients, Hermione slid over to the desk at the front of the room, and caught her professor’s eye. She held up the book just long enough for him to see the title, before placing it neatly in the center of his desk, giving a little wave, and walking out briskly ahead of the crowd of first-years.   
  
When all the students had finally gone, Snape snatched up the book from the desk, almost missing the note resting on top as it fluttered back down to the desk. Still holding the copy of Ars, Physica, Sapientia, he read Hermione’s small, neat, handwriting:  
  
 _Dear Professor Snape,_  
  
I must apologize for my delay in lending you this book as I offered to do over the summer holiday. Although I am tempted to blame the stress of revising for my N.E.W.T.s, I really cannot blame anything but my own woolgathering. I hope I have now learned my lesson, and will not be caught so unawares again. Please feel free to take your time returning this book, as I took my time remembering to loan it.   
  
Regards,   
Hermione Granger  
  
As he lifted the cream-colored half-page of the note, he felt a sharp pain stab through his forearm. The Dark Mark was once again demanding his attendance on his pretended Lord, and his twofold duty required him to leave the school grounds and Apparate thither at once. The last thing he did before leaving the room was to tuck the note inside the front cover of the book. The faint smell from the heavy paper stayed with him as he hurried from the castle to meet his potential doom once more. The scent was reminiscent of vanilla and flowers.


	3. Easy to Love

Easy to Love  
  
I know too well that I'm   
Just wasting precious time  
In thinking such a thing could be  
That you could ever care for me  
I'm sure you hate to hear   
That I adore you, dear  
But grant me just the same  
I'm not entirely to blame  
  
For you'd be so easy to love  
So easy to idolize, all others above  
So worth the yearning for  
So swell to keep every home fire burning for  
We'd be so grand at the game  
So carefree together that it does seem a shame  
That you can't see your future with me  
'Cause you'd be oh, so easy to love  
  
  
“It’s just like fourth year. You'd never know he's aged five years since then. He never changes,” Hermione groused, but without too much sting. The truth was, she didn’t much care that Ron saw her as his back-up plan even now, a year and a half after they'd finished school. More fool he, she thought, when she finally found the wizard of her dreams and left Ron dumbstruck. “I mean, going to this thing as a foursome, but  _'not as a date, or anything like that.'_  It’s really quite pathetic.”  
  
From her vantage point at the table in the Burrow’s comfortable kitchen, Ginny could just see her brother out the window. He and Harry were standing by the shed in the garden, arguing the relative merits of Ron’s latest state-of-the-art Nimbus Hyperdodge broomstick and Harry’s supplanted model. “This is just like old times,” Ginny commented, smiling a little sadly. “All of us here at the hols, the trips to Diagon Alley with Mum and Dad.”   
  
Both girls sighed, thinking inevitably of the loved ones they had lost in the preceding year. Percy, so long estranged from his family, and reunited with them just days before he met his untimely end in the final battle. Remus Lupin, not even at the hands of Death Eaters, but by a mob of frightened townspeople in the remote village where he’d been hiding out. Michael Corner, long since forgiven by Ginny, slaughtered along with a half dozen other brave students when Voldemort managed to get a squad of Death Eaters into Hogwarts itself to try to attack Harry. Hermione reached across the table to give Ginny’s hand a quick squeeze. Then she straightened up, briskly changing the subject.   
  
“Enough of that maudlin stuff, now. We have a Yule Ball to prepare for, you know. It may not matter what I look like, but you have got to look really, really good. Have you initiated Secret Plan None-too-Subtle?” With an impish grin, Ginny nodded. “And how is it going?”  
  
“Too subtle,” Ginny chuckled ruefully. “I tried dropping hints about my dress, but when I mentioned the neckline, Harry tuned out, and all I got for my trouble was a lecture from Mum. I didn’t know she could hear us. I swear the woman came with Extendable Ears as part of her original packaging.”   
  
“So much for Phase 1, 'Getting Him to See You as a Grownup'.”  
  
“I thought Phase 1 was 'Getting Him to Imagine Me Dressed as a Strumpet',” retorted Ginny.  
  
“More like 'Imagine What You Look Like Half-Naked,' given the mechanics of that dress. I still don’t see how it stays on.” Hermione shook her head, thinking of all the Muggle women who would gladly sell their souls for the secrets of Ginny’s dress (which was in fact held up, in no small part, by magic). “Of course, he’s had no end of opportunity to get to know strumpets, since the War. Perhaps it’s just as well to skip that phase.”   
  
It was true that since the defeat of Voldemort, Harry’s fame had only grown, and coupled with his easy manner and tousled good looks, his celebrity status meant he had difficulty fending off all the interested women (not to mention a good few misguided, but persistent, interested men). He had tried taking over the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts the previous year, becoming the youngest professor at the school in over a hundred years. While his class was a huge success, he grew so tired of unwanted advances from the female students that when the year was up he left, after promising Dumbledore to take the position up again in another six years, when all the students he’d been at school with had finally cycled out of Hogwarts.  
  
“Your dress is no slouch, I must say,” Ginny countered. “You’ll be turning a few heads, and at least you won’t be freezing your knickers off.”   
  
“I think I’ll be exposed quite enough to the odd breeze, thank you.”   
  
“I’m sort of sorry about you going with Ron, though. That dress is wasted on him, Hermione.”   
  
Hermione agreed, but pointed out that as she had no designs on Ron, she wouldn’t be wearing the dress for him but for herself.   
  
“He won’t see it that way,” Ginny asserted. “He’ll see it as his proper due that the most amazing woman he knows is all dressed up waiting for him while he takes his time playing with a long string of Quidditch-mad trollops. You’d think with that Chudley Cannons orange he wears all the time, they’d be too physically revolted by the clash with his hair, but…” Ginny trailed off, shaking her head in bemusement at the idea that women would actually compete for her brother’s affections.   
  
Hermione’s reply was cut short by a gust of bitter cold air as the back door flew open and Harry and Ron tramped into the kitchen, stomping the mud off their boots.   
  
“Oy, girls, fancy a trip into Hogsmeade? We thought we might just pop over and visit Rosmerta,” Ron said by way of greeting. Harry just waved a hand, occupied with getting his cloak and gloves off so he could warm himself by the cheerfully crackling fire in the kitchen hearth.   
  
“Visit a bottle of Ogden’s best, more like. But I might. I need to go to Scrivenshaft’s, anyway, for more ink. The shop in Ottery St. Catchpole doesn’t have the right brand. Maybe a new quill. Ooh, and some more of those lovely creamy scrolls they’ve started stocking…” Hermione was already making a mental shopping list. Ron rolled his eyes. He had not darkened the quill shop’s doorstep since leaving Hogwarts, and was none the sadder for it.   
  
“Right, well," continued Ron, "if you can take a moment out of your budding career as a professional bore, maybe you can nip over after you’ve shopped and join me for a quick tot of something or other at the Three Broomsticks. Harry’s coming along about five-ish, once he gets some letter written that he wants to post. What about you, Gin?”  
  
“Five-ish sounds good. I’ve a few things to do around here, first.”  
  
“That’ll work out, then,” Ron said cheerfully. “Come on, Hermione, get your things and let's go. What’s with all the quills, anyway?” He asked abruptly.   
  
Hermione answered a little too quickly, “You can never have too many high-quality writing implements, Ronald.” Wisely, Ron dropped the matter, but Ginny gave Hermione a speculative look as she got up to collect her coat and boots from the row of hooks by the door.   
  
“See you at five, then, Harry?” Ron grinned at his best friend. “And until then, Ginny can be my substitute. She looks just like me, right? In girl form, anyway. Brilliant.” He smiled at his own jest for a moment, his expression faltering as it met the blank stares of his two friends and the knife-like gaze of his little sister. He had no idea what he’d said, but got the clear impression it had been the absolutely wrong thing. “Okay. Well. Right, then. See you later. Come on, Hermione!” And Ron took his leave as rapidly as possible.


	4. I Am in Love

I Am in Love  
  
I am dejected, I am depressed  
Yet resurrected, and sailing the crest  
Why this elation, mixed with deflation?  
What explanation? I am in love  
  
Such conflicting questions rise around in my brain  
Should I order cyanide or order champagne?  
Oh, what is this sudden jolt?  
I feel like a frightened colt  
Just hit by a thunderbolt  
I am in love  
  
I knew the odds were against me before  
I had no flair for flaming desire  
But since the gods gave me you to adore  
I may lose but I refuse to fight the fire  
  
So come and enlighten my days and never depart  
You only can brighten the blaze that burns in my heart  
For I am wildly in love with you  
And so in need of a stampede of love  
  
  
 _Ruddy hell,_  thought Snape, contemplating his wardrobe. He flicked his ectomorphic fingers over each coat, considering and dismissing one at a time. Something with a little color, Albus had insisted. For the Yule Ball.   
  
 _Bloody stupid Yule Ball._  He finally plucked out a black, many-buttoned, high-collared frock coat that looked substantially like all the other black, many-buttoned, high-collared frock coats in his wardrobe. This one was his favorite. He put it on, twisting in front of the mirror to check the drape. Color.  _Bah._  For a moment, he stood lost in thought, rolling his wand back and forth between the fingers and thumb of his left hand. Then, with a muttered charm and a deft swish of the wand, the Potions master made a tiny adjustment to his garment. The narrow piping that edged the collar and placket, previously black, was now a dark forest green. Severus allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction. From two paces away, the change was imperceptible, the coat looked as black as ever.   
  
 _I’ll give you ‘a little color,'_ he thought, a frown returning to his face and quickly deepening to his habitual scowl. His forced attendance at the newly reinstated "traditional" event rankled, and the requirement of color was lemon juice in that open wound. It was all somehow part of this scheme of Albus’ to get him away, he was certain of it.  _Take a vacation, Severus. I’m worried about you. You look pale, Severus, perhaps a little sun…? You have twenty-eight weeks of accumulated paid holiday time, Severus, why not take a sabbatical?_ It was really all getting to be too much. Lately Minerva had been at him as well, no doubt encouraged by the old goat. Why were they so keen to have him leave? Did Albus want to replace him? After years of constant scheming, Severus suffered from an automatic paranoia about most things, but particularly about the motives of the seemingly kindly headmaster and his chief minion. They, too, seemed at a loss with no intrigue to keep them busy, and he wouldn’t put it past them to try to stir something up just for their own twisted entertainment.   
  
 _Can’t they see I just want to be left alone, in peace?_  he asked himself. To while away the days here in the dungeon, at the school where he’d spent most of his life, the only real home he’d ever known? The only place where he could still feel the lingering presence of –  
  
 _Stop that,_  he chided himself.  _Stop it at once. You’re being masochistic – again._ He turned back to the mirror to preen, but his expression gave him away immediately. Wistful. Yearning.  _Pathetic. Oh, bugger._  
  
What were these memories, anyway, that he seemed to live for now his spying days were over? A construct: not a real person, but a fantasy he’d created and clung to like a drowning man to a life raft in those final, tumultuous days of the war. The vision of her, the look on her face as she concentrated on a potion, the smell of vanilla and flowers ( _what kind of flower was that?_) on her stationery, her precise handwriting on the flyleaf of the book he still had in his office. H. Granger. But whom was he really seeing, he had to ask himself, Hermione Granger or his Great-aunt Hestia? Both, or neither? The Hestia-Hermione lived in that tiny, deep, part of his brain, and she was what had allowed him to survive when he had thought all hope was lost. When it seemed that Voldemort would surely win, killing Harry and plunging the wizarding world into an endless night of terror. That he, Severus, would never be able to stop living the life of a Death Eater. He would rather kill himself. He nearly did kill himself. But instead, he listened to the small, quiet, but firm voice of that Hestia-Hermione in his mind, telling him that he could not give up. That he was being silly. That it would, of course, all work out in the end.   
  
 _And it did. Damn it all to hell._  For now, here he was. And with what? A voice in his head that was no real woman, after all, but simply a construct. A fiction his frantic mind had created to save itself from itself. She didn’t exist. She couldn’t exist. Because if she did, he wouldn’t be able to live this way, without her. Because if she did, she would be not only a part of him, but the very best part of him, and he would need her with him all the time.   
  
 _She’ll probably be here tonight,_  a different little voice piped up from his overworked brain.  _No,_  he argued with himself,  _Hermione Granger will probably be here tonight. Not your dream woman, not some stupid missing part of your alleged soul, just the bucktoothed Gryffindor know-it-all with the bad hair and the constant blathering._  He didn’t listen to himself try to argue that his assessment of her was unfair, outdated at the very least, and completely beside the point. He ignored his inner voices as he combed his hair, clean now but soon certain to fall into its genetically predisposed greasy strands, sighed at his unfortunate teeth ( _what is it with Brits and teeth, anyway? Why do the Yanks seem to have a lock on cosmetic dental magics? They’ve made the rest of us look bad…_ ), and practiced a few experimental eyebrow quirks and menacing glowers in the glass before swooping away to exit his quarters and climb the stairs to the Great Hall. 


	5. Anything Goes

Anything Goes  
  
In olden days a glimpse of stocking   
Was looked on as something shocking  
Now Heaven knows, anything goes  
  
Good authors too who once knew better words  
Now only use four letter words  
Writing prose, anything goes  
  
The world has gone mad today  
And good's bad today  
And black's white today  
And day's night today  
When most guys today   
That women prize today   
Are just silly gigolos  
  
So though I'm not a great romancer  
I know that you're bound to answer   
When I propose, anything goes  
  
  
The girls had begun their preparations for the ball the night before. Actually several days in advance of that, but it was the night before that Ron and Harry really noticed. They had wanted to go out to a Muggle movie, and were not pleased at all when the girls declined to accompany them.   
  
“You’re not going to look any different, really, are you? What’s all the fuss about, anyway? Stupid dance,” Ron muttered as Ginny shooed him out of her room, where she and Hermione had set up a veritable mini-spa of potions, unguents, spelled treatments and cosmetic magics. The boys checked in on the girls when they returned from the movie, only to rush out again in horror at the sight of the two. Both young ladies were seated on Ginny's bed, coated from brow to neck with Miracle Mel’s Magical Mud Masque in a sickly iridescent green, eyes daubed with a violent purple firming potion. Ginny’s feet were bare as Hermione leaned over them, attempting to eliminate a toe callous with a charm she’d learned in her seventh year.  
  
“Don’t take off my whole toe, all right?” The younger girl laughed nervously. Hermione’s aim had wobbled a bit when the boys interrupted. She soon regained her focus, and finished ridding Ginny of the offending bit of roughness before turning her attention to her own fingernails.   
  
Down the hall and up the stairs in Ron’s room, the young men were not sure whether to scream with horror or double over with laughter, at the sight of the two girls attempting to beautify themselves.   
  
“You were dead wrong on that one, mate,” gasped Harry through the peals of anguished hilarity.  
  
“Wh—what? Phew.” Ron had to wipe tears from his eyes.   
  
“You said they wouldn’t look any different…” and the two were off again. 

  
***

  
Harry, at least, had cause to regret his childish response the next night. The two men, long since dressed in their best robes, waited somewhat impatiently in the kitchen at the Burrow. Molly Weasley, proud and indulgent, fussed incessantly over Ron’s robes and hair, and did her best to resist commenting on Harry’s spiky locks.   
  
“You both just look so handsome, and so grown-up.” She beamed at them, to Ron’s dismay.   
  
“Mum, we’re nineteen. Of course we’re grown-up.” He brushed her hand away from the collar of his robes, but finally resigned himself to her ministrations as she came right back with a comb.   
  
“Well, I know that, Ronald, but still… oh, well, don’t you look just lovely, dear!” Molly had turned away from Ron, who followed her gaze to where Hermione stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The strapless gown of deep garnet velvet was cut to reveal just a hint of cleavage at the décolletage, while a wispy stole of garnet organza pretended at modesty while drawing full attention to the creamy white shoulders and swelling breasts beneath. With her hair up at the front, only a few determined locks managed to creep forward to occlude that view. Fitted to the hips, the dress flared into a skirt just full enough for dancing and just long enough to qualify as tea-length. Never one to sacrifice comfort for looks, Hermione’s garnet silk slingbacks were only three inches high; still, they managed to arch her slim ankles and calves into a graceful pose as she giggled and spun for Molly's approval.   
  
“Wow!” said Harry appreciatively, though his smile was purely platonic. He had never had anything but fraternal feelings for Hermione, but he still appreciated a gorgeous woman when he saw one.  
  
“I thought you might wear orange,” whined Ron. Seeing the other three turn to stare at him as if his head had just sprouted bogeys for hair, he attempted to explain. “For the Cannons, you know. Seeing as you’re my date, and all.” The explanation was not helpful. Hermione’s eyes snapped, and she was drawing a breath to explain a few things of her own to Ron when Ginny stepped through the doorway.   
  
“ _Wow_ ,” choked out Harry, who suddenly felt funny all over. Ginny was a vision. Ginger hair falling in lush curls framed a plunging neckline that arrowed down far enough to reveal her breastbone while still managing to conceal all but the tiniest peek of the delicate creases and smooth curves of her small but clearly perfect breasts.   
Years of Quidditch had left Ginny quite lean and firm, and the play of smooth muscles as she reached up one bare arm to brush her hair back from her shoulder left Harry breathless and suddenly glad he already had his loose dress robes on. He tried to will away his sudden and raging erection by telling himself this was Ginny, female substitute for Ron, but his body was having none of it. The russet-colored dress she sort of wore was made out of something thin, silky, and shimmery, that looked like it might be see-through. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t see through it. And he tried with considerable might.  _How did it stay up,_  he found himself wondering,  _magic?_  The gathered wisps of fabric rose to points at her collarbones, where it thinned to straps of the most delicate coppery cording. Crossing behind her neck, the cording rejoined the dress somewhere over her ribs on each side… surely not enough to hold up the whole dress, without a charm, or perhaps some sort of glue?   
  
When Ginny walked over to pluck her cloak from its hook, Harry caught a view of most of her back, since the thin straps covered nothing; the dress plunged so low he could just see the bone below the small of her back. He also saw the whole of one slender leg, from hip to toe, as the handkerchief-style skirt panels slid apart. A surprisingly long and unbelievably beautiful leg, with muscles thrown into even sharper relief by the machinations of the cruelly high, strappy, stiletto-heeled copper sandals that seemed to stay on Ginny’s feet through some dark magic of their own.   
  
Harry realized simultaneously that his mouth was hanging open, that Hermione was smirking at him in a way that reminded him unpleasantly of Snape, and that Ginny was thankfully oblivious to their silent little interchange, occupied as she was with her mother and Ron. Those two Weasleys wore identical expressions of disapproval, which didn’t faze Ginny in the slightest.   
  
“You can think what you like, but it’s the perfect dress and I’m wearing it. I look stunning. And it’s really nobody’s business but my own,” Ginny added with a calm little smile indicating this was her final word on the subject.   
  
If you think I’m going out with my little sister looking like a –"  
  
“Ginny, darling, you’re a young, unmarried, witch, don’t you think –"  
  
“Don’t worry!” said Harry suddenly, cutting off both Weasleys in mid-tirade. He gulped a little, but continued firmly, as both turned angry red faces his way. “Look, Ginny’s my date, right? I’m going to be right there chaperoning her. And I think she looks spiffing. And Mrs. Weasley, you and Mr. Weasley and everyone will be right there at the dance, for most of it anyway. She’s just having a little fun, you know. Showing up looking great and all grownup for her first time back at school after leaving. Don’t you think she looks great and all grownup?” He finished uncertainly, hoping like hell his speech sounded better to the Weasleys than it had to him as he’d said it. What had possessed him? Ginny glared at him, seemingly none too happy with his intervention. _Spiffing? All grownup? Of course she’s grownup, you stupid berk, she’s a Goddess is what she is, what were you thinking? Why did you say it, why, why, why?_  His mental kicking of himself was surely hard enough to leave visible bruising.  
  
But it seemed to have worked. The tension in the room, thick as an encroaching lethifold a moment before, vanished with Molly Weasley’s chuckle.   
  
“Oh, well, of course, dear. We will be there, and she’ll be with you and Ron and Hermione. So that should be alright, then.” And Molly Weasley patted Harry’s arm fondly, before turning to fuss over Ginny, arranging her cloak and hair to cover as much of her as possible. “So you don’t get cold, dear,” she asserted, fooling nobody.   
  
“So what about that orange, then. You’re good at Charms. Hermione? Hermione?” Ron gaped after Hermione with a fish-like look as she rolled her eyes, stomped over to the door for her cloak, and turned to Ginny and Harry, ignoring Ron.   
  
“If we’re going to get a good table for dinner, I think we need to be going along, don’t you?” she said sensibly. 

  
***

  
The wine and fairy mead at the pre-dinner reception (for alumni only, no current students admitted) had loosened everyone up considerably, and by the time dinner itself was over, most of those present felt very loose indeed. Hermione sat with Harry, marveling over the decorations, occasionally laughing with delight as one or the other pointed out something particularly noteworthy.   
  
The fairy lights, of course, were charming as always. The ceiling also, especially as it was currently enchanted to look like a slightly cloudy sky just at the end of an unusually stunning sunset. The countless shades of color - salmon, lilac, turquoise - illuminated the treetops, for in place of traditional Christmas trees, ranks of graceful poplars lined the edges of the Great Hall. In their branches, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny gold and silver birds fluttered, nestled, and gleamed in the sunset shimmers and fairy glow. The fairies themselves were almost as numerous as the tiny birds, outlining the tree limbs with their luminescence and occasionally flitting up to sport in the ersatz clouds. Beneath the spreading branches, dozens of small round tables with bistro chairs replaced the long trestles that normally occupied the hall, while the center of the expansive room was left mostly open, for dancing.   
  
Accordion music drifted across the dance floor, alternating with an occasional big band number. The couples whirled and dipped around a huge stone fountain that had sprouted in the center of the hall, complete with sleek gray marble hippocampuses spitting plumes of rose-scented, rainbow-hued water twenty feet into the air. Knuts and sickles, and not a few galleons, already lined the sparkling pool at the fountain’s base.  
  
“Whatever made him think of it, I wonder,” mused Hermione as she held up a finger to allow a minute golden bird to perch for a moment before flitting away. “It’s absolutely stunning, but for Christmas?”   
  
“He visited Paris this summer. McGonagall was with him. He said he fell in love all over again, and I keep telling myself he meant with the city.” The happy couple in question swung by in a snug embrace only partly excused by the waltz they were dancing. Harry resolutely looked the other way, stifling the urge to shudder.  
  
“What a total prat,” mumbled Hermione, earning a sharp look from Harry before he realized she wasn’t talking about Dumbledore. He followed her glare to the dance floor, where Ron was playing tug-of-war. More accurately, he seemed to be the willing rope in a tug-of-war between Lavender Brown and a seventh-year girl whose demeanor suggested she’d found her own alternative to the libations served at the pre-dinner reception. Ron was giggling, and over the music they could hear his comment about there being enough of him to share. “This is getting to be such a bore,” said Hermione, not bothering to hide her disdain for her date’s antics.  
  
“Do you think I should ask Ginny to dance?” blurted Harry. Ginny had not left the dance floor since the music started, as she’d been cut in on by one eager male after another, and she was evidently having the time of her life. Her mother and father were trying to give her a wide berth, but both had looked around for Harry a few times, as if wondering what had become of his promised chaperonage.   
  
“Sure, I guess. Why wouldn’t you?” replied Hermione with disingenuous nonchalance, well aware that Harry had recently noticed Ginny looked nothing whatsoever like Ron in girl form.   
  
“Oh, well, erm… I just don’t want her to think I’m being like Ron, you know, using my celebrity to get girls to dance with me.” Hermione laughed out loud, before pointing out that she and Harry were only sitting there unmolested by every available woman in the hall because she had cast a charm to make them unnoticeable. The Wallflower charm, she called it,  _Cheiranthus Cheiriosa_ , a small but useful Disillusioning magic of her own synthesis.   
  
“You asked me to hide you, Harry. So I don’t think there’s a danger of anyone thinking you’re using your celebrity. Besides, Ginny knows you aren’t like that.”   
  
“Okay, then, I suppose you’re right. Go ahead and cancel your charm thingy. She can’t dance with me if she can’t see me.” Harry still sounded hesitant, but Hermione obliged with a muttered  _Finite Incantatum_ , and after a faint glimmering came and went around the table, people started to notice them again. At that same moment, Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she looked across the dance floor and met the cold scrutiny of her erstwhile Potions professor.


	6. I Get a Kick Out of You

I Get a Kick out of You  
  
My story is much too sad to be told  
But practically everything leaves me totally cold  
The only exception I know is the case  
When I'm out on a quiet spree  
Fighting vainly the old ennui  
Then I suddenly turn and see  
Your fabulous face  
  
I get no kick from champagne  
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all  
So tell me why should it be true  
That I get a kick out of you  
  
Some get their kicks with cocaine  
I'm sure that if I took even one sniff  
It would bore me terrifically too  
But I get a kick out of you  
  
I get a kick every time I see   
You standing there before me  
I get a kick, though it's clear to see   
You obviously do not adore me  
  
I get no kick in a plane  
Flying too high with some gal in the sky  
Is my idea of nothing to do  
But I get a kick out of you  
  
  
Snape had known she was at the Ball. He had seen her arrive, seen her sipping fairy mead and chattering away at Potter, at Albus and Minerva, at a score of friends she hadn’t seen in months. And shortly after dinner, once the Weasley siblings had gone their ways, he had seen her and Potter at their table, and then had  _not seen them._  
  
Curious, automatically suspicious, and realizing one of the two must have cast a spell to deflect notice, Snape decided to exercise some of the spying skills he had long since mastered. He waited. He watched the spot where he knew, intellectually, their table must be. Periodically he reminded himself it was still there, since the charm  _(must’ve been Granger, Potter’s never been that good, but what the blue blazes was the charm she used?)_  tended to make his mind slide right away from the area where the table was.  
  
He had to admit, if only to himself, he was impressed that it was able to deflect him so well if he didn’t concentrate. Much larger magics were used to hide the Hogwarts campus from Muggle eyes and make it Unplottable, of course, but Granger's charm was done on such a delicate scale. Something one could normally cast only around oneself or one other with a Disillusionment, not simultaneously around oneself, others, even nearby objects like furniture. And it was fooling even trained wizards and witches, not just gullible Muggles. Unusual. Subtle.   
  
He had, at first, suspected the worst. That Potter and Granger were doing something unspeakable under their veil of unnoticeability. Then he shook himself, thinking better of it, telling himself they’d never seemed to be a couple. The very idea sickened him. Sickened him more and more as the minutes passed by. They’d been hiding for close to half an hour. If not that, then what on earth where they doing under there?  
  
And then, it lifted. He saw an odd discongruity in the air, and then the table was in focus as if it had never been hidden. Snape lurched to his feet, scowl firmly in place, and geared himself to march over to the table and demand to know what they had been up to. But he stopped in his tracks, as if nailed there, when Hermione’s eyes hit his from across the room.   
  


***

  
The moment the table slid back into notice, Ron noticed it. Peeling his most recent dance partner off with a grin and a promise to return before too long, he bounced over to grin at Harry and Hermione like a kid on a sugar high before the inevitable crash.   
  
“This is bloody brilliant, this is! Isn’t it? What have you two been doing?” He turned to wave at a nearby table full of giggling young witches, then leaned over Hermione to nick the strawberry that garnished her drink. “’m dancin’, myself,” he mumbled happily around the strawberry, his eyes stealing back over to the tableful of evident fans.  
  
“Yourself, Ron? Really? That’s funny, I haven’t seen you by yourself for one single moment all night.” Hermione’s sharp tone was lost on Ron, who processed her words as a joke after a second or two, and chuckled while ducking his head in pretended humility. Hermione couldn’t have cared less. When he’d leaned over her, he’d obstructed her view of Snape, and now she couldn’t spot him. Where had he flown off to, the big bat?  _Damn and blast_.  
  
“It’s all for the fans, you know,” Ron went on. “I’m just taking one for the team. But of course I’m taking you home, love, so that sorts that out,” and he was actually obtuse enough to give her a wink. He missed the look of frank disgust on both Hermione’s and Harry’s faces, because he was looking at the table of eager witches once more.   
  
“Heellllloooo,” he intoned, grinning, “she’s wearing orange. Cannon orange. Outrageous! You don’t mind, do you Hermione?” and without waiting for an answer, Ron was off to sweep the young orange-clad witch onto the dance floor, leaving her three friends to giggle and swoon over their lucky mate, and to bemoan their lack of foresight in not choosing orange evening apparel.  
  
“That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Harry, I quite agree with you,” said Hermione as she scanned the room again, trying not to be too obvious.   
  
For his part, once eye contact was broken, Snape had fairly vaulted from the spot, panting for escape. His brain raced with a dozen contradictory ideas, and nearly burst with the indecision of it all. He felt a numbness lifting, his head seeming to float in the ridiculous cotton-candy clouds, but with the numbness gone the pain of insecurity landed on him like a ton of bricks. For long, torturous months, years really, he had envisioned this girl, and clung to his vision beyond reason, beyond hope, beyond anything resembling reality as he knew it. To actually look her in the eyes was stunning; he felt giddy on more than fairy mead, and Snape was not a man to feel comfortable with giddiness. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Weasley idiot galumph onto the dance floor with yet another chippie, and wanted in equal amounts to applaud him for obviously not wanting Hermione, and to punch him square in the jaw for obviously not wanting Hermione.   
  
Fortunately for Snape, his feet were at the opposite end of his body from his brain, and his body seemed to have its own clear and much more practical opinion on the subject of the insufferable Gryffindor. As a result, while his brain had been distracted with second-guessing itself into a lather, his feet had briskly marched him around the outside of the room, skirting the trees, to land him within a few yards of Hermione’s table before he fully realized where he was. Smart feet congratulated themselves, stepping neatly behind the nearest tree just in time to avoid being spotted. It was obvious Snape would never get shagged without their help. Once hidden, he eavesdropped shamelessly on the conversation between Hermione and the Boy Who Lived to Dither Sickeningly over a Weasley.  
  
“Look, Harry,” Hermione said firmly, her patience at an end, “I’m probably violating some unspoken girl code, but I’ve really just had enough of both of you, so I’m going to tell you this in the strictest confidence to preserve what is left of my sanity on this ghastly night, all right?” At Harry’s bewildered nod, she continued. “You should ask her to dance because that’s what she wants, you stupid git. She bought that dress with the specific aim of snaring you tonight and claiming you for her own. There is only one reason– well, two, actually, but one of them I really can’t tell you –whatever, that she doesn’t have you pinned down in an empty classroom shagging you senseless right now, and that is because she got into a royal snit when her idiot brother suggested you saw her only as a convenient female substitute for him. Said snit only heightened when you had the colossal lack of sense to call her outfit ‘spiffing’ and tell her mother she looked all grown up.”  
  
Hermione paused for breath, and Snape had to stifle a snicker lest she hear it and turn around. Harry started to speak, but she cut him off. “No. Not another word. I’ve given it to you. Ginny Weasley, all neatly wrapped up with no tricky knots or sneaky packaging, just the girl you’ve been too dense to see is perfect for you,  _right… there... all… along._  So go now, cut in on her, don’t let anyone else cut in on you, and thank me later on your wedding day. And Harry,” she stopped him as he sprang out of his chair, narrowing her eyes to hiss a final warning at him. “For fuck's sake, just don’t mention Ron.”  
  
He needed no further prompting, nearly sliding across the polished stone floor in his haste to cut in on Dean Thomas and whisk Ginny away for himself.   
  
“ _For fuck’s sake_ , Miss Granger?” queried a velvet voice in Hermione’s ear, the brush of warm breath sending a shocked thrill down the entire right side of her body. “You should mind your language, there are students about.” And she turned just in time to see the smirking Potions Master slither off again, leaving her with a still-burning body, and one recurrent thought that drove all others out of her mind:  _Dear God, that was just Professor Snape whispering ‘fuck’ in my ear._


	7. Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love)

Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love)  
  
Birds do it, bees do it  
Even educated fleas do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
In Spain, the best upper sets do it  
Lithuanians and Letts do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
The Dutch in old Amsterdam do it  
Not to mention the Finns  
Folks in Siam do it - think of Siamese twins  
  
Some Argentines, without means, do it  
People say in Boston even beans do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
Romantic sponges, they say, do it  
Oysters down in Oyster Bay do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
Cold Cape Cod clams, 'gainst their wish, do it  
Even lazy jellyfish, do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
Electric eels, I might add, do it  
Though it shocks 'em I know  
Why ask if shad do it…Waiter, bring me shad roe  
  
In shallow shoals English soles do it  
Goldfish in the privacy of bowls do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love  
  
  
Harry floated, alone with Ginny in a pastel cloud of relief, success, and anticipation. The rest of the dance floor simply fell away as soon as she looked up and smiled at him, and he saw only the coppery vision before him. Why had this all seemed so difficult? Here he was, dancing with the most beautiful girl in the world, who had just actually laughed at a really pretty weak joke of his, and she was already his date! He had obviously been blind before, for not realizing that he must marry Ginny, have many babies with her, and shag her senseless, although hopefully not in that order.  
  
They were the perfect height for dancing, Ginny in heels being only a few inches shorter than Harry. His right hand, flat on her bare back, felt warm and at home. He worried briefly that it was getting sweaty, and wondered what he should do about it. No way to look suave while wiping his hand on his trousers. Why had he never noticed that Ginny's fair, fair skin was so translucent, it was close to luminous? You could almost see her glowing, see the life pulsing through her strong, supple limbs as she swayed in time to the music.   
  
As if by some secret signal only their bodies knew, Ginny tilted her head up just as Harry glanced down at her, and he knew they were going to fall into the kiss of the century.   
  
"Hello, you two! Are you having a good time, dears?" Molly Weasley whisked by them, partnered with more enthusiasm than skill by her beaming husband. "Ginny, love, aren't you cold?" And with a little wave, the coppery vision's parents swung out of view again. The exchange had roughly the effect of a bucket of cold water on both Harry and Ginny, who simultaneously flushed with embarrassment and tried to look anywhere but at one another's mouth.   
  
Never one to back down on a challenge, however, Harry decided to take matters into his own hands.   
  
"Look, erm… you want to go for a walk?" he blurted.   
  
"Sure," said Ginny. Harry waited a moment, and then realized he had to lead the way. But where?  _Just pick someplace and go, you stupid arse, before she realizes what a huge dunce you are._  
  
"The gardens will be too cold this time of year. Let's go walk in the halls." And he grabbed her hand and almost yanked her out of the room in his single-minded determination to be anywhere her parents wouldn't soon be dancing by.   
  
Once out of the Great Hall, though, Harry's confidence flagged again. If even half of what he'd heard the past five or so years were true, Ginny would have already had occasion to develop her own fond memories of all the good snogging spots in the castle, and he didn't want those memories flocking around tonight. Where, then?  _Damn,_  he thought,  _why does she have to be the one who's done all this? What was I wasting my time doing all those years of school, anyway?_  
  
"Come on, then. This way," said Ginny with a coy smile, startling Harry out of his self-abusive reverie. She tugged his hand gently, and he felt a warmth start to grow there as he followed her down a narrow passageway just beyond the main staircase. "No portraits down this way," explained Ginny, stopping once they'd rounded a corner, and turning to face him.   
  
"Harry—"   
  
"Ginny—"  
  
"I. Oh. You go first."  
  
"Erm, I have no idea what I was planning to say, actually," confessed Harry. "I was hoping you did." His grin made Ginny's knees weak, and she swayed closer, unable to tear her gaze away from his dazzling green eyes, her lips unconsciously parting at the realization that Something (she wasn’t quite sure what) was About to Happen.   
  
Harry caught her shoulders as she leaned forward, giving both of them a jolt as his hands met her bare, warm skin. Enraptured by the feel of her, the unbelievable silkiness, he stroked his way down her arms to take both her hands in his and pull her closer. For a moment, they both stood trembling, searching each other's eyes, before Harry bent to taste her lips. Gentle, tentative at first, he brushed the silky skin with his own mouth, amazed at the softness he encountered. When he pulled back, Ginny stood with her eyes closed, and her shallow breaths spurred him to dip down again with more authority. Overcome with a sudden rush of emotion and desire, Harry dropped her hands and pulled her sharply into him, one hand encircling her slender waist while the other stole up to curl around the back of her neck. He held her head, twining his fingers in her hair, and pressed his lips insistently to hers, moaning a little when his tongue finally found its way inside her warm, wet, panting mouth.   
  
Ginny responded eagerly, meeting his tongue with an exploratory flick of her own, and was rewarded with another moan. Finding this encouraging, she decided to experiment elsewhere, reaching around him to trace down the long lines of his back, rubbing the heavy silk of his robe slowly up and down and pulling herself even closer. And there, she stopped, realizing what she was up against. Literally. About the time this information registered on her passion-drugged brain, Harry stepped back, breaking the kiss, only to lean back against the stone wall and pull her in close once more to stand between his legs, evening their heights. He lifted the hair back from one soft shoulder, and when he bent to nuzzle and nip at her neck, she cried out softly as a jolt of pleasure flashed down to her groin. Harry smiled against her neck, and moved his attentions up to her ear, eliciting a ragged sigh. He ran his hands down her bare back, pausing only a moment where bare skin turned to fabric, then sucked her earlobe gently as he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pressed her decisively against his now uncomfortably hard prick.   
  
"Harry!" Ginny cried, passion turning to mild panic, and abruptly pushed herself away from him.   
  
"Huh?" Wound up past reason, and understandably puzzled by her retreat, the Boy Who Sported a Raging Erection's first instinct was to reach for Ginny and try to pull her close again. Not until she straight-armed him did he come to his senses enough to consider the impropriety of turning their first kiss into an impromptu shag against the wall. "Oh, god, Ginny, I -I'm so sorry. You know, it just felt really great, and I guess I just got, got, carried away?" He stammered lamely, straightening up and rubbing a hand over his face.   
  
"No, no, that's okay, Harry." Ginny tried to cover her mortification. "I just thought it was going a bit fast, you know, and…" to her horror, she felt tears welling up and spilling down her face. Even in the dim light of the hallway, they were too obvious to miss. Feeling defeated by her own complete oafishness, she put her back to the wall and slid down, sitting with her legs out in front of her. After a moment, with an apologetic little half-smile, she bent one leg up and started removing a copper-strapped stiletto. "These things are fucking killing me."  
  
"But you really look fantastic in them, Gin," said Harry. He sat down slowly, winding up cross-legged at her feet, and carefully removed her other shoe, placing it gently next to its mate and beginning a slow, methodical massage of Ginny's shapely foot. Without looking up, he started speaking in a low, earnest, voice, not really understanding Ginny's tears but hoping to distract her from them. "Beyond fantastic, in fact. When you walked into the kitchen, I thought my heart was going to beat its way out of my chest. And I was really nervous, but then once I finally got up the nerve to ask you to dance, it all just seemed so perfect." He kneaded the arch of her foot, risking a peek at her face. Ginny's eyes were closed, and she seemed to have stopped crying. She looked like she was just listening, and waiting. So he went on.   
  
"I realized how stupid I've been. When we started kissing, I realized I've kind of been wanting to do that for, oh, I don't know how long –"  
  
"Since the first time I saw you," whispered Ginny.  
  
"No, really just for the past few months, but… oh. Oh!" Harry's hands stopped moving, and his mouth felt too dry to speak. Which was as well, since he had absolutely no idea what to say.   
  
"Close your mouth, Harry, before something flies in," said Ginny, amusement at Harry's expression winning out over chagrin at her somewhat untimely confession. Damn it, but her defenses had just been wiped away by his hands, and now by those eyes… as she watched him, he put her foot down very carefully, and ran a hand absently through his perpetually disheveled hair.   
  
"Gin, maybe…" Harry could hardly believe the next words out of his own mouth. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."


	8. All of You

All Of You  
  
I love the look of you, the lure of you  
The sweet of you, and the pure of you  
The eyes, the arms, the mouth of you  
The east, west, north, and the south of you  
I'd love to gain complete control of you  
And handle even the heart and soul of you  
So love at least a small percent of me do  
'Cause I love all of you  
  
 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_  chanted Hermione to herself over the glittering crystal punch bowl.  _Stupid,_  as she chatted with feigned gaiety to Professor Flitwick and Bill Weasley by the blazing Yule log in the great hearth.  _So very unbelievably stupid, this is real life and not some teenage fantasy,_  as she lightly smacked her head on cool stone of the blissfully empty hallway.   
  
"Ouch," murmured Hermione, rubbing her forehead gingerly with a fingertip.   
  
"Indeed," agreed Snape dryly, snickering as she whipped around to face him.   
  
"Bloody hell! You shouldn't sneak up on people like that." He was leaning up against the opposite wall, arms folded, elegant legs casually crossed at the ankle, and looking more than a little amused at her outburst.  
  
"Language, again, Miss Granger. Is that what they're teaching you down in the Department of Mysteries? Unspeakable, truly," he smirked.   
  
Hermione was torn several ways. Finally choosing what she deemed the safest course of action, she replied with a cool, "How did you know where I'm working now?"   
  
"Albus and Minerva tell me everything," he said calmly, and gave her a moment to reflect on that before going on. "I came looking for you, by the way, because I still have your copy of Ars, Physica, Sapientia and I had the feeling you might find it a useful reference in your… new line of work?"   
  
Hermione nodded gracefully, still none too pleased that he actually knew about her line of work, which was supposed to be highly classified.   
  
"And I have another, similar one I thought you might be interested in borrowing," continued Snape. "It's quite old, but a very useful reference, more of a practical manual than a theoretical treatise. If you'd care to follow me?" He pushed off from the wall and started off without waiting for an answer.   
  
"Follow you where?" Hermione asked suspiciously.  
  
"To my office, of course, Miss Granger," he tossed back over his shoulder. "I'm not in the habit of attending social events carrying borrowed books on the off chance of seeing the lender. Are you coming, or are you not?" he finished, almost tauntingly, stopping and tapping an impatient toe without turning around.   
  
"All right," she finally assented, warily. She stepped after him as he swept away, feeling as she did so that she had somehow agreed to more than just a casual stroll to his office for a friendly book exchange. She couldn't help but admire the dramatic swish of his robes as he turned each corner, though she was suddenly struck with silent giggles at the memory of an earnest girly debate her third year on the subject of whether or not Snape was in fact the vampire of the dungeons or merely a disagreeable bat. Hermione, ever of a practical turn of mind, had regarded the discussion as quite silly and juvenile, because Snape met few of the vampiric criteria. He appeared in full daylight quite readily, reflected in mirrors and other shiny surfaces, and showed no sign of distress in working with certain sanctified potions ingredients.  _And I'm such an unromantic little factmonger,_  acknowledged Hermione to herself.  _A vampire's invitation to his lair, that's exactly what that agreement to follow him reminds me of._  Despite herself, she giggled again, reciting sotto voce, "Enter freely, and of your own will."   
  
"Don't think I haven't heard that one before, Miss Granger. It comes a close second to 'come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.'" As they reached the stairway that led down to the potions classroom, he took her elbow in a firm grip, warning her to mind her step. The touch sent a shiver through her, as effectively as if he'd stroked a breast or nibbled her neck. Hermione felt her breath coming faster, felt weak in the knees, and struggled mightily to regain her composure while they were still in the dim light of the tunnel. Before he saw the flush that she felt rising on her cheeks and bosom. _Get a grip, Granger,_  she told herself sternly.  _This is your greasy Potions professor. He's not a man; he's a block of ice. He's oil on ice. Hot oil over ice, so hard to grasp, so slick and smooth… oh, cut that out right now!_  
  
Before she knew it, they had reached his office, and he'd removed his hand to pull out his wand, lowering the wards and unlocking the door. The office was much as she'd remembered it, still too dimly lit with just a hint of eerie green glow, still lined with shelves, some of which held books, but far too many for her taste holding various nasty things suspended in vile-looking goo. He seemed to have acquired a brand new nasty thing, in fact; an especially large and dusty old jar stood on his desk, containing something grayish-pinkish and bumpy floating in something brownish and too horrible to contemplate.   
  
"Now there's something truly unspeakable for you," quipped Hermione, trying to quell her jangled nerves. Snape finished locking and warding the door, and came to stand next to her, sighing as he looked down at the jar.   
  
"Actually, in this case I must agree with you. It's not even a particularly good specimen. Still, I suppose, since it's family…"   
  
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione's eyes flashed from Snape back down to the jar in alarm.   
  
"Yes. My great-great, great, perhaps two more greats, grandfather. Rufus of Snape, back before Snape was overrun by Muggles, leaving us only the surname. Rufus the Remonstrative. He willed his brain to be preserved and passed down for scientific study. And lucky me, I'm the next scientist in the family." He peered more closely into the brown murk, with a sour expression. "I'm sure my uncle Sejanus was quite gleeful in his last lucid moments, knowing how I'd feel about having to make shelf space for this charming little heirloom. Bastard."  
  
"From your tone, I'll assume you are not waiting to hear my condolences on your loss. How did he die, anyway?"  
  
"Flung himself off a cliff in the Apennines."   
  
"Oh, dear."  
  
"Well, it was either that or continue to be violated by trolls."  
  
"That's appalling," cried Hermione, shuddering as she thought immediately of the one troll she had been unfortunate enough to encounter close up.   
  
Snape merely shrugged.   
  
"It's a safe assumption he was asking for it." He slunk around the desk to the bookshelf immediately behind it, scanning the spines briefly before plucking out a slim, worn leather volume. "Here it is." He turned and slid the volume to her across his desk, skirting the monstrosity in the jar. His flexed fingers splayed over the smooth leather cover recalled Hermione's schoolgirl dream so suddenly and fiercely that she felt a little dizzy with the rush of heat. Rashly, she decided to try a gambit she had only just considered, and when her fingers met his over the book she raised her eyes to his and in a clear mental voice thought _Legilimens.  
  
Gray, and despair, and so cold, in the anteroom of Severus' mind, and in the distance she could hear the faintest memory of agonized screaming… his own? Hissing laughter floated across the bleakness, stinging as it passed, and somewhere a door slammed and a man shouted, and she heard the thud of a fist pounding flesh, and she realized there were doors everywhere. Dotting the cloudscape she floated in, where she had expected to find order and control, she found these iron-hinged dungeon doors to nowhere, straining to open themselves against layers of locks and, on some, even chains. From behind the nearest one, she heard the rising sound of another scream, a woman's this time, with what started as passion turning to fear, then terror, then sobbing, then deadly nothing. After a moment, she felt something different, and turned in her mind to find the source of this… it was pain, but not like the rest. It was exquisite. It was warm. It yearned. She saw the door was unlike the others, a plain six-paneled door with black paint and a brass knob. From around the jamb, she could just see a glimmer of what looked like firelight, and felt so drawn to it. She thought of knocking, realized incongruously that it was ridiculous to knock, she was already inside his head, and _  
  
"Out," he said softly, and she was. They were still leaning over the desk, looking into each other's eyes, fingers brushing on the book with an electric tingle. It had been the work of less than a moment, but…  
  
Blushing, unable to speak, Hermione snatched her hand and her gaze away and raced towards the door, almost stumbling and catching herself at the door as she came up against his warding and the lock.   
  
 _"Alohomora,"_  she rasped, and tugged ineffectually on the handle.   
  
"Miss Granger – "  
  
"I can't get out if you don't let me open the bloody door!" she snapped, feeling so far beyond foolish she didn't have a word for it.  
  
"Hermione –" His voice came from directly behind her this time, stopping her cold. "I didn't mean get out of the room, I just meant to get out of my head."   
  
Her traitorous cheeks broke out in another telltale flush as he grasped her shoulders and almost gently turned her around to face him, moving one hand to lift her chin, making her meet his inscrutable gaze.   
  
"You don’t even know, do you?" he said with a chuckle, which was not at all what Hermione had expected. She shook her head a little, completely nonplussed.  _Who are you, and what have you done with Severus Snape?_  "I suppose I really shouldn't confess, then," he mused, with a more familiar, sinister look stealing back across his face. "But no, despite the huge emotional advantage I'm conceding by assuaging your guilt, I will tell you that we're even."   
  
"What?" Hermione felt surreal, slightly unhinged; she wasn't sure which was more unsettling, laughing Snape or ethical Snape, but either way she still had no idea what he was talking about.   
  
"We're even.  _I was doing it too._ " After a moment, seeing that the information was finally sinking in, he went on with a slight bitterness creeping into his voice. "You got the drop on me, I'll admit, but you would've never gotten in without using your wand and speaking the charm aloud, if I hadn't lowered my defenses in order to have a push your way. I caught just a glimpse, but you had a nice long look around. I'm not surprised you were eager to leave." He finally released her shoulder and chin, and stalked back to his desk, where he pulled a half-consumed bottle of firewhisky and a glass from a drawer and poured out a respectable slug before offering it to Hermione. She declined with a shake of her head, preferring instead to begin pacing by the still-locked door, thinking things through before she did or said anything else. Snape knocked back the whiskey, his eyes never leaving her.  
  
For his part, Snape was bluffing as bravely as he had ever done in front of Voldemort.  _Merlin's hairy left nut,_  he thought,  _does she even know what it's like in there?_ True, it looked like crystal, shimmering countless surfaces reflecting golden light back and back and back on itself, almost blinding him… but it  _felt_  like drowning in rose petals, as soft and warm and fragrant as he imagined her sex to be, scented in layers of vanilla and flowers, and he finally knew the flowers were old garden roses, cabbage roses, with layers of petals that seemed to go on forever, intoxicating him with their essence, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't recognized it before, and now here he was, hiding an erection behind his desk while she prowled like a caged lioness in front of his locked door. 


	9. It's All Right With Me

It’s All Right With Me  
  
It's the wrong time, and the wrong place  
Though your face is charming, it's the wrong face  
It's not his face, but such a charming face  
That it's all right with me  
  
It's the wrong song, in the wrong style  
Though your smile is lovely, it's the wrong smile  
It's not his smile, but such a lovely smile  
That it's all right with me  
  
You can't know how happy I am that we met  
I'm strangely attracted to you  
There's someone I'm trying so hard to forget  
Don't you want to forget someone, too?  
  
It's the wrong game, with the wrong chips  
Though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips  
They're not his lips, but they're such tempting lips  
That, if some night, you're free  
Then it's all right, yes, it's all right with me  
  
  
Poor Neville was hopelessly out of his league, he knew it, and for a few mad minutes he didn't even care. Why should he, he reasoned; he was not the shy Longbottom of his Hogwarts days now, he was a war hero who could probably get a date any night of the week he cared to go out. And he was a respectable Ministry wizard doing important research every day, with solid prospects and his whole life ahead of him.   
  
And so, although at one level he knew it was wrong to even let himself pretend, Neville Longbottom was fantasizing quite furiously at the moment. Not merely about sex, which would have been understandable in the circumstances, but about the far more seductive realms of marriage, a home, and a brace of tiny red-haired daughters whom he couldn't help but spoil quite rotten because they looked so much like their mother.  
  
Fortunately for them both, the object of all this fevered imagination was far too drunk to notice his longing looks, or to remember them the next morning if she did notice. After running away from Harry like all the hounds of Hell were after her, Ginny had come back to the Great Hall and hit the fairy mead. Hit it hard. So hard that now, her gorgeous frame was draped over Neville as much for support as for seduction.   
  
"Nevvy…." she purred in his ear, "you were never this tall at school, were you? Mmmmm…." and she wrapped her arms more tightly around his neck, twining her fingers in his hair.   
  
"Ginny, are you sure you're all right? I've never seen you like this." Neville tried unsuccessfully to pull away a little, being at heart far too decent to let himself get carried away once he realized there was more going on with his friend than simple tipsiness. "Did something happen?" Ginny, clinging like a limpet, ignored the last question.  
  
"You've never seen me like this, Neville? Well, there are lots of ways you've never seen me." She pulled back to smile at him suggestively, her pouting lips and sleepy eyes looking exactly as he would imagine they would in bed. "Why don't we go find a quiet spot in the halls and I'll show you a few of them." And she tugged him by the hand, meeting little resistance as she led the way to a spot not too far from the one she and Harry had occupied only an hour or so earlier.   
  
"Gin, maybe this isn't such a good idea," began Neville, regretting it instantly as he saw Ginny's eyes narrow and flash.   
  
She rounded on him, grabbing his hair in the same spot she had caressed before, and hissed, "I'll decide if this is a good idea or not, Neville Longbottom," before kissing him ferociously. And then bursting into huge, gulping, snuffling sobs.   
  
Neville just nodded and sighed.   
  
"I suspected as much," he said, holding Ginny up with one arm while reaching for his wand to transfigure a Knut to a handkerchief for her. That accomplished, he hugged her and patted her heaving shoulders until her tears subsided. He knew she had picked him for a reason, and the reason was that he was safe. Although not in the magical sense, Neville was Ginny's secret-keeper, the only one until Hermione who had known the chaste truth behind all the unsavory rumors.   
  
When Ron finally found the two of them, he wasn't even vaguely suspicious of the young man holding his now-sleeping sister's head cradled in his lap. It was "just Neville," and he was relieved to see his little sister hadn't gone off and done anything stupid, like trying to snog some tosser in the halls.   
  
"Hey, we're over here, Harry," he called softly as he heard footsteps. Harry hastened his steps, but stopped dead when he saw Neville and Ginny. For a moment, jealousy flared up white-hot, and he nearly drew his wand before he stopped himself.  _It's just Neville,_  he told himself, _get a grip, for heaven's sake._  
  
Ron went off to fetch their cloaks, and returned with a grin and the orange-clad blonde, explaining he couldn't leave just yet because he still owed her another dance. He also, he whispered to Harry, had to find Hermione, whom he surmised was probably curled up with a book somewhere waiting for him to be ready to go home. So it was Harry and Neville who woke Ginny enough to sip a sobering-up potion, Harry and Neville who fitted her cloak to her sleepy, drooping, shoulders, and Harry who finally pulled her close to Apparate them both to the garden outside the Burrow.   
  
The kitchen lights were on, and the pair could hear Molly and Arthur Weasley's cheerful voices carried on the crisp winter breeze. Ginny's hands flew up to cover her face, and she stood silently for a few seconds before lowering them again.   
  
"Do you mind if we sit out here for a few minutes, then?" Harry offered, knowing he'd said the right thing when he saw the relief and gratitude on Ginny's face. Her eyes were still puffy, her nose still a little red, she wouldn't make eye contact, and in the winter moonlight Harry thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Wisely, for once, he kept this thought to himself for the moment, and just walked with Ginny a little way from the house until they reached the low stone wall that framed the yard. After a few minutes of silence, he threw his cloak over Ginny's shoulders, pulled her a little closer, and cast a warming charm over them both. And so they sat, alone in the moonlight with their thoughts and each other, for many a long minute more.


	10. Why Can't You Behave?

Why Can't You Behave?  
  
Why can't you behave?  
Oh, why can't you behave?  
After all the things you told me,  
And the promises that you gave,  
Oh, why can't you behave?  
  
Why can't you be good?  
And do just as you should?  
Won't you turn that new leaf over,  
So your baby can be your slave?  
Oh, why can't you behave?

  
  
"First of all," said Hermione finally, jolting Severus out of an increasingly tipsy near-doze, "I should make it quite clear that I need neither wand nor speech to work that spell. A focused charm, like  _Lumos_  or  _Scourgify,_  needs those, yes. But for Legilimency and Occlumency I've discovered they only distract me. So if you think you're safe in your head with your guard down, think again." He raised his eyebrows, startled at the sudden change in her demeanor. She had turned quiet and brisk, and was studying him now with a cool, unemotional appraisal he'd only seen her direct towards potion ingredients in the past. "That being said, we're far from even. I may not need a wand to get there anymore, but you're far more experienced at finding your way around a mind, so I'm quite sure you saw as much or more in your 'little glimpse' as I did in my longer visit."   
  
Severus opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.   
  
"I'm not through yet." She approached the desk, still staring him down in that glacial, opaque way, and drummed her fingers on the patinated old mahogany for a moment, collecting her thoughts again. "Secondly, I don't need to get in your brain to know you do nothing without a purpose. So I will be needing to know whatever Slytherinesque ulterior motive you had in making your little confession. And if you try to claim it's ethics again you'll find out exactly what I do use my wand for in very short order, and it will  _not_  be a charm. Finally, I would like to know whether you do, in fact, have the book I lent you? Or have I dragged myself all the way down here for nothing?" As an afterthought, she added, "Professor."   
  
A palpably weighty pause descended while Snape considered how best to proceed. At last, he looked up, eyeing her with extreme caution and speaking very softly.   
  
"I hardly know where to begin, Miss Granger. Must I answer your demands as presented, or may I go in any order I like?" His expression was the twin of hers, as inscrutable as he could make it. She stared him down, not answering, waiting. "All right, then, in any order I like. Yes, I do have your book. It's in my sitting room in my private quarters down the hall."   
  
Standing, he moved slowly around the desk as he spoke. "As for what I saw in your mind, you're quite right. I saw more than enough to be going on with." He allowed himself a tiny smirk at this, as he came to a halt within inches of Hermione, and stood looking down into her eyes, thinking that he must take pains to enrage her more often because she was even more beautiful when she was angry.   
  
Hermione's icy expression never changed, but the blushing was still beyond her control, betraying her even as her quickening pulse and widening pupils did. Snape, who almost never blushed, and whose irises were nearly as dark as his pupils, silently gloated while hoping she would not chance to look down and see his own involuntary response. He tried to clear his mind of the images that arose as he leaned closer and caught her scent, the memory of falling into an endless bliss of rose-petaled, crystal-bright softness.   
  
"And finally, Miss Granger, my underlying motive." And without further preamble, he took her face roughly in both hands and kissed her, hard and deep, bruising her tender mouth ruthlessly as he forced it open to admit his tongue. Still holding her face, he attempted to turn them both, to pin her hips against the desk with his own, and the unexpected movement threw Hermione off balance and out of his arms. Her bum hit the edge of the desk awkwardly, and she almost toppled into the jar of Snape's ancestor's brains, catching herself just in time and mentally cursing her decision to wear anything other than flat heels. Swiftly she decided that while hexing Snape would be rewarding, walloping him would be more satisfying still, and in one fluid motion she pushed off the desk and brought her arm around to connect with his face in a resounding slap.  
  
For a moment, both of them stood silent, staring at one another, Hermione clutching her stinging hand and Snape clutching his stinging cheek.   
  
"You  _slapped_  me," he finally said, in disbelief. He scowled at her fiercely, unaware that at some point in their history she had begun to interpret his darkest scowl as really more of a pout.  
  
"You noticed," she shot back dryly, with an arched eyebrow that reminded him uncannily of himself.   
  
"Merlin's blazing bollocks," he began, and stopped, with no idea what to say next.   
  
"Remind me to ask you about swearing all those Wizardy swears, sometime, won't you? Are you really going to need this all spelled out for you?" When he glared mutely at her, scowl firmly back in place, she continued. "It's like this, Severus. I may call you Severus, may I not? Seeing as you had your tongue down my throat a second ago, it seems only fair." Hermione had to hop a little to perch up on his desk; once there, she started drumming a light but steady nervous rhythm into the side with her heels as she slipped into the matter-of-fact, but almost patronizing, tone she used when patiently describing complex theories to her friends and colleagues.   
  
"You've made a few serious tactical errors this evening, and frankly I'm disappointed. You see, you'd made a really brilliant start, finding a sneaky way to go whispering a naughty word in my ear, and then catching me in the hall like that and fetching me down here on this book pretext, when we both know you might just as easily have owled."  
  
"Pretext? See here, Miss Granger, I do not –"  
  
"Stuff it, I'm going on with this and you can either listen or I'm leaving." With a sort of fascinated horror, Severus found himself clamping his mouth shut, as Hermione continued. "Right. You'd even let me get away with my little vampire joke, an excellent underhanded way to let me know you weren't going to treat me like a student anymore. So here we both were, and both made our big joint mistake, because we're both such control freaks we just had to know where we stood, didn't we?" His eyes slid away, refusing to meet hers, as plain a tacit admission of guilt as she could hope for. "You were actually in a fair way to saving that situation for both of us; you were really almost gracious about the whole thing. But then, then, you made your first solo mistake. Have you figured that out, yet?" She paused, giving him a moment to ponder this, and was rewarded after a second or two by a sneer, then the grudgingly mumbled admission.   
  
"I left the door locked so you couldn’t get out."   
  
"Yes! Very good!" she sounded genuinely happy with his successful deduction, and pleasantly surprised on top of it. "Yes, not only is that potential false imprisonment in the making, which is a Muggle thing you've probably never heard of, it's just really bad form. You have to let me decide whether I want to leave or stay. Besides, think about it, would you really have wanted to keep me here for whatever nefarious purposes if I had genuinely wanted to leave?"   
  
He took a little too long responding for her comfort, his sneer deepening into something even less pleasant, and she decided not to wait for his answer. When she started up again, her tone was a bit sharper. "Even then, as I said, you were being somewhat gracious, and the locked-door bit might not have been a problem if you hadn't made your next error, which was suddenly trying to snog my face off with no real warning, grabbing me rather painfully and trying to pin me to the desk. Still in said locked room with no escape. Which also happens to be the place where my friends served a good half of the approximately eighty thousand detentions you gave them when we were at school here. Not to mention being a very squicky and strange place for a snog in its own right."  
  
"That's a fair cop," he mumbled, startling a nervous giggle out of her before she could stop herself.   
  
"You're not allowed to make jokes at this point in the proceedings," she said sternly, stifling another giggle that threatened to emerge. "You've been very bad, and I'm still very angry with you. You took me by surprise and tried to force your hand, and you didn't need to, you know. You were in for a kiss, I was expecting that. Followed by a dinner invitation, perhaps. Instead you sort of attacked me, and it wasn't at all pleasant. I am sorry if I overreacted, a bit. But considering your behavior, you're lucky I'm still sitting here giving you another chance."   
  
"Why don't you just leave, then?" he spat out more sharply than he meant to.  
  
"I told you. I'm giving you another chance."  
  
Severus met her glance again, trying not to look too calculating as he attempted to deduce the minimum he would be allowed to do to get himself back where he was now determined to be. Slowly, he reached for his wand, withstanding her suspicious glare, and lowered the wards and unlocked the door.   
  
"All right for a start," she granted him, "but if you move too quickly with that wand I may still hex you into the castle foundation where nobody will hear your screams."   
  
Moving slowly, then, Severus pocketed his wand and once more came to stand in front of her. Or rather, in front of where she would be once she stood up. Hermione held her breath, still wary, and slid off the desk. Once on her feet, she barely came up to his shoulder, and for the second time that night she felt a genuine, if momentary, flash of intimidation, remembering how he'd seemed to tower over her when she sat in his classes. But then he clasped both his hands behind him, turning a little so she could see he was holding one wrist firmly with the other.   
  
"My deepest apologies for my forward behavior," he began, not sounding at all sincere. Still, Hermione was willing to give him credit for effort. "I must have lost my head for a moment. I haven't courted in a long time, you know." At her warning glance, he admitted somewhat stiffly, "I've never courted, actually. The opportunity just doesn't arise much when you're either out meeting with Death Eaters, or trapped in a remote Scottish castle with no likely candidates for miles in any direction. So… now what, Miss Granger?" he asked hoarsely, and more urgently than he'd meant to, arching a brow and sneering once more - despite his best intentions - at the lamentable position in which he found himself. Then he caught her scent again, faint as memory, sweet as success, and he felt his prick harden impossibly, and he knew he would do anything, anything, to bury it inside her and make love to her until she screamed his name – _make love? Have I ever even thought those words before? Gods in their heavens, what is wrong with me?_  
  
Hermione looked up at him, her eyes darkened despite her attempt to maintain decorum. "Since you  _asked,_  and I'm consenting…I suppose you can give it another try. But still, no sudden moves." The flash of desire in his eyes thrilled her, and she was amazed at his self-control as, for a moment, he stood still and looked at her with seeming calm.   
  
"…you suppose?" The sneer curled into a predatory smile, making her aware again of how small she felt next to him, how defenseless. How incredibly aroused.  
  
"Everyone deserves a second chance," she whispered.  
  
"Gryffindor philosophy." Still keeping his eyes locked on her own, Snape raised one hand to Hermione's hair, brushing just his fingertips through the loose curls before reaching behind her head to loosen the hairpins deftly. Once free, her hair tumbled down, and he plunged his hand through it to twine his long, capable fingers into the locks at the nape of her neck, effectively holding her head in one place. Hermione swallowed hard as his fingers brushed the fine hairs behind her ears, making her shiver with anticipation. Snape saw her cheeks flush again, her breath quicken, but held back.   
  
He brought his other hand up to rub gently at Hermione's full lower lip with his thumb; so luscious, slightly moist, it made him think of ripe plums. Snape had planned to capture her mouth and plunder it again, drawing an unequivocal line in the sand for Hermione to cross or run from. But at the last moment, his long hands framing her face, he found himself bestowing upon her a kiss that was tender, almost chaste. Her silken lips met his with no resistance, and opened delicately when he pressed further. When his tongue dipped and found her own, shy and velvet, willing, he was almost overcome by emotions he couldn't begin to name. As was Hermione, who had expected an overt prelude to sex, and had never imagined she would suddenly be receiving the most intimate kiss of her life. It took her breath away, and when they finally leaned away from one another she felt disoriented, as though she were not quite standing upright.   
  
For a moment, they just stared at one another, then Snape cleared his throat and looked at the brain in a jar, Hermione coughed and looked at the flagstones, and they stepped away from one another as if by agreement.   
  
"That was-" she began.  
  
"I didn't-" he attempted.  
  
"Erm. Well, this isn't going quite the way I'd expected."  
  
"Miss Granger-"  
  
"Please. Stop. Call me Hermione. I think it's only appropriate, considering what-"  
  
"Hermione, then." He looked up suspiciously. "What had you expected?"  
  
"Oh… I'm not even sure, come to think of it. Probably something more like what you did in the first place."  
  
"But… you struck me when I tried that."   
  
"Yes. Yes, that's true, I did. I think that wasn't quite what I had expected, either, when it actually came down to it. This has been an extremely unexpected evening, altogether. Frankly, the Department of Mysteries doesn't provide many courting opportunities either. I suppose I'm bad at this, too." She looked up, somewhat apologetically, to find him staring quizzically at her. "What were you expecting? When you asked me down here, I mean?"  
  
"I thought I'd made it plain."  
  
"Really? Just sex? Right away? Hmmm…" Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I wouldn't have done that in any case. Not down here, tonight. Not without our seeing one another at least a few times first."   
  
 _She can't be serious,_  thought Snape. Then, seeing the completely frank expression on her face,  _Dear Gods, she is serious._  "Hermione, we've known each other for nearly ten years. I think we're past the getting-to-know-you stage." Her brows drew in sharply, and he suspected he was in for it.  
  
"Known each other? How can you say that? We don't really know anything about one another. I mean, I know you're a teacher here, and I know what you're like in class. Which hardly recommends you, incidentally. You wouldn't really want to draw attention to that bit of history. But after watching you in Order meetings and during the War, I know that there's more to you than what you let the students see. I knew about you, as a child would know. And you knew about the child I was, as your student. But you don't really know anything about me as a person. Just some superficial personality traits, and whatever you could glean from my essays." Hermione smiled, a little bitterly, thinking of all those essays. "Years of my youth, wasted, that I'll never get back again."  
  
"Education is never wasted," Snape said automatically. Then, seeming to come to a resolution, "Would you like to have dinner with me some night?" The standard phrase came hard to Snape, and he unwittingly made a face a little like the one he might make if he'd just swallowed a particularly unpleasant potion.  
  
Hermione looked at him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then smiled enigmatically. "Well, it's going to be hard to avoid one another at dinner for the next few months. I suppose we could sit together, though? I believe there's usually an empty seat next to yours."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I thought Albus and Minerva told you everything?" At his raised eyebrow, she continued, "I just assumed you knew. I'm coming back here next week when the students arrive, to do a research project for the Ministry. My partner and I will be here through March or so, working with the first-years. Did you really not know?"   
  
"You're going to be here at Hogwarts for three months?"  
  
"Yes, I've just said so. I suppose that's a 'no' then."  
  
"No, I did not know."  _And Albus is going to have some rather serious explaining to do when I manage to find him, the candy-addled old fool._ "This presents some…interesting… possibilities."  
  
"Well, possibilities… but you might not want to get your hopes up too far. I am going to be working on the project, of course, which will take up a considerable amount of time. We'll probably spend most of our stay here just trying to gather and evaluate as much anecdotal data as possible, through interviews and school records."   
  
"We? Oh, yes, you mentioned a partner."   
  
"Yes. Assuming, of course, that he can get any work done at all with the dreaded Potions master lurking about the building, waiting to swoop down at any moment." Hermione chuckled softly, "You'll remember him, I suspect; He's from my form. It's Neville. Neville Longbottom."


	11. In the Still of the Night

In the Still of the Night  
  
In the still of the night  
As I gaze from my window  
At the moon in its flight  
My thoughts all stray to you  
  
In the still of the night  
While the world lies in slumber  
Oh, the times without number  
When I say to you  
  
Do you love me   
Like I love you  
Are you my life to be  
My dream come true  
Or will this dream of mine  
Fade out of view  
Like the moon growing dim  
On the rim of the hill  
In the chill, still of the night

  
  
Scant moments after Harry and Ginny had made their way into the Burrow, Hermione hesitated on her way up the path to the lopsided house and detoured to the conveniently located low stone wall for a little reflection of her own. Unable to find Ron, and just as relieved to be shut of him for the evening, she had Apparated back alone. Now, by the dwindling moonlight, she let her thoughts drift back over the decidedly odd interlude with Snape.   
  
 _What the hell was that kiss,_  she wondered, _or that other kiss, for that matter? What on earth was I expecting, anyway?_  She realized she had no idea. Overwhelmed by the images from her seventh-year dream, she had paid little attention to the idea of Snape as a real person, someone who might make overtures to her with an actual relationship in mind. She had been thrown off by so many things tonight; the kisses were, in a way, the least surprising. His sense of humor…the idea that he actually had a family, even if it seemed an unpleasant one…the tiny hint of green on his frock coat, when she'd have sworn he never wore anything but black.   
  
Thinking of the test her mother had always suggested to her as a method for assessing her true feelings about "a boy," Hermione closed her eyes and tried to picture herself with Snape in twenty years. Nothing. The concept was so far from anything she'd ever considered that she couldn't even form an image in her mind of what that future might be like. And yet, she found herself strangely captivated by the idea that the Potions master, sexy but cruel, might be more than met the eye. That she might have something to look forward to besides years of lonely research and a spinster's death, surrounded by cats. That she might have something to look forward to, at all.   
  
For the first time since the War, Hermione looked around her and really noticed the night. Everything seemed sharp and clear, all of a sudden, even the faint smell of cold earth beneath her feet and the discreet rustlings of a gnome creeping into the garden further down the wall. Wood smoke trailed from the chimneys of the Burrow, and the scent drifted toward Hermione on the crisp winter breeze. She felt like she was waking up, coming to herself after a long and unpleasant slumber to find the world subtly more lovely than she'd remembered.   
  
By the time the cold finally drove her inside, Hermione had decided that, come what may, she would use the next three months to her advantage. By the end of that time, she would know how to imagine herself twenty years down the road, and she would know whether or not Severus Snape belonged in the picture.

  
***

  
As for Snape, for once his thoughts were more straightforward.  _She's not my Aunt, she's not even who I thought she was, and I don't care. I've done mucking about; I'm going to pin this one down if it's the last thing I do. I've never wanted somebody so badly in my life; that must count for something. I'm long past due._  
  
Or something to that effect. Charming the piping on his frock coat back to the original black, he placed it neatly back in his wardrobe and settled down into bed to ponder how best he might woo Hermione Granger. 


	12. Night and Day

Night and Day  
  
Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom  
When the jungle shadows fall  
Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock  
As it stands against the wall  
Like the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops  
When the summer shower is through  
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you  
Night and day, you are the one  
Only you beneath the moon or under the sun  
Whether near to me, or far  
It's no matter darling where you are  
I think of you day and night,   
Night and day, why is it so  
That this longing for you follows wherever I go  
In the roaring traffic's boom  
In the silence of my lonely room  
I think of you day and night,   
Night and day, under the hide of me  
There's an oh, such a hungry yearning, burning inside of me  
And this torment won't be through  
Until you let me spend my life making love to you  
Day and night,   
Night and day

  
  
"I've already told you, I got bored watching you play around so I came back early. I had packing to do." Hermione held up a shirt and folded it, demonstrating.  
  
"Why don't you just use a spell for that? But I didn't see you back here," insisted Ron, "and anyway, I think it was a bit rude to go off without your date."  
  
"Ron, you are hardly in a position to talk." She attempted to shut the lid of her trunk, failed, and pulled out a few items to refold them, attempting to make them fit into the limited space. "You weren't really my date, anyway, as you yourself said. So I don't see what the fuss was about. Leave off, will you?"  
  
"Fine. Fine, I will. Not your date. Ta very much. Who Apparated you there, then?" And he grumbled his way out of the room, leaving Hermione to her packing.   
  
Seconds later, a tousled, dark, bespectacled head peeked around the doorjamb. "Good, he's gone at last. Now will you tell me where you were?" Harry flung himself on the bed, all ears and eager attention.   
  
"In the dungeon, snogging the Potions master, where else?" Hermione tossed out casually. Harry snorted, and flopped onto his back to peruse the numerous cracks in the ceiling.   
  
"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. You don't have to be disgusting. Unlike Ron, I can take a hint."  
  
"Aren't you going to tell me how it went, your big night with Ginny? I saw the two of you disappear down the hallway." Hermione, engrossed in the effort to squeeze yet another book into a corner of her trunk, didn't see the sour expression on Harry's face, but turned when he didn't answer. "Harry?"  
  
With a sigh, Harry gave up counting the cobwebs and looked at his friend. "I have no idea how it went, Hermione." At her puzzled expression, he went on, "The thing is, you told me Ginny fancied me, so I went for it, and everything seemed just brilliant. But then…"  
  
"Then…what?" she prompted.  
  
"Well, we were out in the hall, and we'd started…well, you know, and I said I'd wanted to kiss her for a long time, and she said she's -- God, this was so weird -- she said she's wanted to since the first time she saw me."  
  
"Harry, of course she has. Are you the only person on the planet who didn't know this?"  
  
"You mean you knew, and you didn't tell me?" He sat up, his expression wavering between angry and anxious.   
  
"Well, of course. Of course I knew, and I thought I  _had_  told you. Really, I thought you already knew but just needed some help getting your courage up. But, Harry, I don't see the problem. You like Ginny, she's always liked you, so shouldn't that be that?" Leaving off the packing, Hermione sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, facing Harry, as he answered.   
  
"No, I don't think so. There's a big difference between fancying someone and having a fling when you're both grownups, and thinking you've been in love with someone since the age of eleven. I mean, what does she expect from me? A schoolgirl hero-worship crush, how can I measure up to that? It's like it isn't really real, what she wants. It isn't me. I don't want to get involved, just to be cast aside when she's exhausted her crush. And besides," he reasoned, "I think she'd be very disappointed in any case. I'm sure I'm not a patch on Dean and all the rest. Unlike them, I spent my school years trying to defeat Voldemort instead of figuring out what to do with a girlfriend. Hell, half the school thought I was gay because I gave up dating for so long after the Cho debacle. But come on, when did I have the time for it?"  
  
Hermione leaned forward and took Harry's hands in hers, looking at him very earnestly. "Harry, I think it's very, very important that you talk with Ginny."  
  
"I've tried, but she's been avoiding me all day. And last night, after we got back here, we just didn't say a word. I have no idea what was going on in her mind. Or mine, actually."  
  
"You need to find her, and talk with her; because, for one thing, she's too good a friend to lose, no matter what happens. And she's your best friend's sister. But, Harry, you should know that this isn't a schoolgirl crush. It may have been once, but she knows you now. The real you, not some idealized version, and she still cares for you. As for the other thing, about measuring up--" she paused, chewing her lip. "Well, again, I can't tell you why, but there is just no reason for you to be concerned on that score."   
  
"I know, it's ridiculous. I don't know, Hermione, all I could think was that when she said it, that she'd wanted me since she first saw me… it also just seemed so big, and serious, all of a sudden. Like it meant so much more--"  
  
"Harry Potter, you had better not be saying that you're just afraid of commitment." Hermione dropped his hands and looked ready to reach for her wand.   
  
"No, no," he reassured her hastily, "I'm just afraid of hurting Ginny. Or myself, I'm not sure which. Just insecure, not a playboy." His rakish grin might do any playboy justice, but Hermione knew he was genuine.  
  
"You'll talk to her, and give it another go, then?" He nodded. "Even if it ends in marriage and children and all?"   
  
"We'll name our first girl after you."

  
***

  
Hermione had to wait until after dinner to corner Ginny in her room and confront her friend about talking to Harry.   
  
"You have to tell him, Ginny," she insisted. "He thinks either you'll get bored and play him false, or he won't measure up to your wicked past. I've never seen him so insecure. And it's pointless, as he has nobody to measure up to."   
  
"I know, I know. But why did he think it wasn't a good idea, again? He thinks I'm a trollop, I just know it." Ginny threw her pillow over her head in despair, prompting Hermione to pick the pillow up and whack her with it.  
  
"Have you been listening at all? Why do I feel like I've already had this conversation once today? He doesn't think you're a trollop, you dense twit. He just thinks he can't live up to your expectations, and you'll wind up disappointed. Or that you're just reliving your old crush, which I assured him you're not. Or he thinks he won't be as studly as Dean or whoever. On which topic I remained largely silent, while still trying to be reassuring. And it was very trying, indeed."   
  
"How could he possibly think I'd be disappointed? I think everything he does is wonderful. It disgusts even me, sometimes. He could pick his nose, and I'd probably find it delightful."   
  
"Yes, but Gin, this is just the problem. He fears your disillusionment when you discover he has feet of clay. Never mind that you would, in fact, find them adorable. Probably get your mother to teach you to knit little clay-feet booties or something…"  
  
Ginny tucked the pillow back over her head and gave a muffled scream of frustration. Lifting it away again, she looked at Hermione with a bemused expression on her face.   
  
"You sure you don't want to just become lesbians? Save us a lot of trouble…"   
  
"Talk to him," Hermione said.   
  
"I just find the whole turn of events ironic, given our relative reputations. The secret virgin, hoist by her own petard when the Boy Who Lived thinks he won't impress in bed, and the dateless bookworm, packing lacy knickers to help her carry on with the wicked sex god of the dungeons."   
  
"Talk to him," Hermione repeated, smiling despite herself.   
  
"Fine." Ginny got up and sauntered to the door. "Fine, I'll talk to him. If he comes to talk to me, that is. I'll reassure him. But I won't tell him about… _that._ " And she left Hermione behind to finish packing her delicates. 


	13. You Do Something to Me

You Do Something to Me   
  
You do something to me,  
Something that simply mystifies me.  
Tell me, why should it be,  
You have the power to hypnotize me?  
  
Let me live 'neath your spell,  
Do, do that voodoo that you do so well,  
For you do something to me,  
That nobody else can do.

  
"And this was when you were how old, again, Sheila?"  
  
"Six, Miss." The little blond first-year gazed at Hermione, the war hero, with wide eyes. Although new to the Wizarding world, the girl had already heard amazing things about the exploits of the witches and wizards who fought in the War, and was tremendously excited to have a chance to meet two of them.   
  
"And can you still do it?" Hermione continued.  
  
The little girl nodded, whipped out her wand, and demonstrated her ability to create a light wind that ruffled through the parchments on the wide table before dissipating.   
  
Hermione chuckled. "That was lovely. Let's leave these papers alone, though, if you please. Now, I noticed you used your wand for that. Did you start using it for your special trick immediately after you arrived here at Hogwarts, or later?"  
  
"Oh, right away, Miss. You see I hadn't been able to do it for years and years, then when I got my wand I tried again, and there it was again. My whirly-wind." The girl blushed, realizing her slip. "That's what I used to call it, when I was little," she explained.   
  
"That's a very good name for it, I think," Neville chimed in, winning a sunny smile from the tiny interviewee. "So, do you recall when you stopped being able to do it without the wand, before you got here?"   
  
After a moment's thought, the child nodded her head. "I was nine," she said firmly, "and I tried to whirly the ornaments on the Christmas tree. But I couldn't, and it made me angry. I broke an ornament and got in trouble with my Mum. That's why I remember."   
  
"That's very clever, to remember that way, Sheila," he praised her. "I think that's all for now, how about you, Hermione?" She agreed, and dismissed the little girl after letting her select a sweet from a basket of assorted goodies kept close by for that purpose.   
  
"Cute little thing," Neville commented. "Did you notice, she's another one with dragon heartstring for a wand core?"  
  
"Just like mine. I really must go through the list again. I know there's supposed to be no direct correlation, but it might still provide some interesting information. We might talk to Ollivander; I'm sure he has some keen insights."   
  
"Interesting, yes, but getting off the topic. Which is more than enough to keep us busy. Look, I'm knackered. And starving. I'm going down to dinner; are you coming?" Neville pushed away from the table and stretched, hoping to lure Hermione away so he wouldn't have to feel guilty about stopping first.   
  
"I'm just going to finish notes on Sheila, and then I'll be there. You go on." Taking her at her word, Neville departed for the Great Hall, and Hermione bent over the parchment to make her final few comments. When she finished, the growing chart of student names, incidents, and wand materials caught her eye, and she fell into study, telling herself she would spend only a few minutes more.   
  
Half an hour later, still absorbed in her task and reaching quill to ink, she was jolted from her near-trance when she accidentally knocked the ink jar over, trying but failing to catch it in mid-fall. "Oh, fuck!"  
  
“Fuck, again? A bit coarse for a young lady of your education and position, don’t you think, Miss Granger?”   
  
Soft as the voice was, it startled her out of her seat, and she nearly sent her chair skidding into the Potions master standing right behind her.   
  
"You've got to stop sneaking up like that! You'll give me a heart attack one of these days, and then won't you just feel horrid?"  
  
"My 'sneaking,' as you call it, is a finely honed skill, gained through years of espionage. It has proven the downfall of many a student through those same years, and I have no plans to stop. Consider, if you had been a student, I could have deducted house points for your profanity. And all through the use of stealth. Pity." He smirked at her obvious irritation.   
  
Hermione frowned, unknowingly Snape-like for a moment, then sighed in exasperation. “I don't set out to be coarse. I never used to. I just can’t swear like you all do, by Merlin and Morgana and company and their very odd bits and knickers and things. I just wasn’t raised with it, you know? It always comes out as something stupid, like… Nimue’s… fluffy… bunny slippers,” she ventured. “There, you see?”   
  
For a moment, Snape’s expression was unreadable. Then he repeated after her, rolling the phrase around in his mouth like a wine he found unexpectedly saucy. “Nimue’s… fluffy… bunny… slippers. Nimue’s fluffy bunny slippers.”   
  
"Please stop." She was fighting not to laugh, and rapidly losing the battle.  
  
"I find it difficult to imagine a situation in which one might find that to be an appropriate or satisfying expletive. Nimue's fluffy--"  
  
"Well, what, then? Please, enlighten me as to what the appropriately accomplished vulgarian witch should say in these circumstances."   
  
Snape seemed to give it some thought, pursing his lips and tapping a toe for a few moments before answering. “How about ‘Merlin’s balls?’ That’s fairly standard. Then you could branch out. ‘Merlin’s hairy arse.’ Or even ‘Merlin’s purple g-string.’”  
  
Hermione snickered involuntarily at the incongruity of the sour Potions professor swearing by Merlin's purple g-string.   
  
“I must tell you that the Wizarding community clearly has a vastly different perception of Merlin than that commonly held by the average Muggle.”   
  
“He was a right tosser, from what I understand. Bloody brilliant, of course, best wizard of his or any other age, but still… there was a reason she locked him up in that cave, and I’ll bet it didn’t have anything to do with using him for sex, either. I think he just did something to get her that pissed off.”  
  
“Remind me to make you read The Once and Future King sometime.”   
  
“Of course. I enjoy books about history and politics.”   
  
Hermione realized the spilled ink was staining the tabletop, and said a few quick cleaning charms, righting the ink bottle and replacing the quill in its stand. "Did you come here for a particular reason, Professor, or just on the off chance I'd need a dressing-down for language? Incidentally, I have trouble accepting that you just used the term 'tosser' in front of me." She also had trouble accepting the idea that Snape was being almost nice to her, but wisely kept that to herself.   
  
"I thought you might feel better if you weren't the only one indulging in crudity."  
  
"So, it was nobility, then? But you're a Slytherin, Professor. So, where's the quid pro quo?"   
  
He just smiled, in a smirky way that conveyed evil intention much more clearly than a scowl. "I thought it was 'Severus,' now I've had my tongue down your throat." His eyebrows lifted, and Hermione suddenly recalled, with a visceral tug, the sensation of his hands brushing against her.   
  
Trying to ignore it, she finished tidying up the paperwork on the table. "Severus. Did you have a reason?"  
  
"You were missing dinner… Hermione. Longbottom voiced concern, and I told him I would check on you." His tone was suspiciously bland.   
  
"And he just let you come up here alone, with no protest?" The twitch of his lips told her there had indeed been some protest. "Do I need to go and Ennervate poor Neville, or did you terrify him into submission with the sheer force of your personality?"  
  
"Personality," Snape stated, deadpan once more.  
  
"Lovely. I am feeling a little peckish, I suppose. Would you be kind enough to escort me to the Great Hall?"   
  
"Is this our dinner date?" He offered his arm, feeling a tingle when she wrapped her hand around it with a lingering caress.  
  
"Nope. Dumbledore's buying. You won't get off that easily. And I still want to know the quid pro quo."   
  
"You're about to put eating dinner with me over continuing your research. Isn't that enough?"  
  
"Somehow, I doubt it," she replied wryly, but kept her arm in his as they descended the stairs.

  
***

  
Neville had been relieved, during dinner, to see that Hermione had come to no evident harm with the dreaded Potions master. Hermione had been extremely distracted, of course, what with trying to eat, converse with Neville, and keep Snape out of her thoughts all at the same time. Difficult to do, that last, with the subject so close at hand. Snape sat just at her left, remaining until she had finished her meal, and staring Neville down until the cowed young man finally excused himself from the table with an expression of anguish. Gloating a little, Snape offered to escort Hermione to her room if she planned to retire for the evening.   
  
"That would be lovely," she replied, uncharacteristically demure. In truth, she was trying to mask the pounding of her heart at the brush of his hand on her elbow as they rose to leave. Her nipples had hardened instantly at that feather touch, turning his gesture of courtesy into an erotic overture.  _He's turning my entire body into one big erogenous zone,_  she thought, and then smiled and nodded politely as they passed the other staff members on the way out.   
  
Snape's robes billowed in their typical fashion, making a particularly dramatic show as he led her up the broad staircase to the first story. Succumbing to the curiosity of many years, Hermione finally asked, "Do you charm your robes to do that?" At his startled glance and subsequent scowl, she grinned. "You do, don't you? What do you use? You can tell; your secret will be safe with me."   
  
"Don't be silly, Miss Granger," he replied, a little too curtly; she could see him, from the corner of her eye, trying not to smirk. "If I did, they would billow all the time, wouldn't they? Even when I stood still. It would be too… obvious. I try to avoid being obvious."  
  
"Oh, disingenuous! Now I really must know how you do it."  
  
"Get used to disappointment," he responded, letting the smirk out to play. Hermione almost tripped over the first step of the second stairway, entranced as she was by the curl of his lip.  _When did the smirk become sexy?_  she wondered, slightly giddy with lust.   
  
They arrived at her door all too soon-- or perhaps not soon enough, Hermione really wasn't sure anymore. When she turned around, her hand on the doorknob, a student was just walking by. Snape met the boy's eyes and glared at him, stopping the hapless youth in his tracks. The three stood frozen in tableau for a moment, then the boy stammered, "Good night, Professor, sir. And Miss," and turned around to disappear down the steps at a near-run.   
  
Snape was surprised to hear Hermione's chuckle as he faced her once more. He had expected her, if anything, to chide him. Instead, she smiled somewhat fondly up at him, her head cocked to one side.   
  
"That wasn't very nice, you know. What if he needed to pass by to get to his house? You might have been responsible for keeping him out past curfew."   
  
"If he had legitimate business, he would have continued on his way to it," reasoned Snape, leaning forward slightly to rest one hand on the doorjamb.   
  
"And you? Do you have legitimate business here, then?" she asked, still smiling but not in a merely fond way. In fact, Snape found her smile slightly salacious, and leaned in to get an even closer perspective.   
  
"I'm a Slytherin, my dear Miss Granger. I am, as it were,  _the_  Slytherin. Do you really need to ask if my business here is legitimate?" After glancing to the sides to check that no more students were about, he leaned in the final few inches and let his lips brush hers lightly.   
  
Already aroused, Hermione found herself almost lightheaded with anticipation. But just as she opened her mouth to deepen their kiss, Snape pulled away, smirking again. Taking her hand in his, he drew it up to his lips and repeated his barely-there kiss in a manner that would have seemed positively courtly were it not for the wicked expression on his narrow face.   
  
"Thank you for your charming companionship at dinner this evening. I trust you'll rest well. Good night… Hermione." And with that, he released her hand and swirled away, too quickly for her to protest.   
  
Senses reeling, Hermione leaned back, needing the solidity of the heavy wooden door behind her. After a moment, she turned the knob and half-stumbled into her room, closing the door behind her and leaning back on it again. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted that Snape had not angled to stay for the evening, especially since she had half-intended to let him stay. On the whole, she decided she was relieved, although terribly frustrated and not a little confused. She had been expecting a Snape who wanted only to get into her knickers, and was not sure how to cope with a courtly Snape.  _Well… courtly after his own fashion,_ she amended, with a smirk of her own.  _He must want something, though… and if it isn't sex, I'm damned if I know what it could be._  
  
Still wondering, Hermione wandered over to the bed and flopped down, eyeing the stack of books on the nightstand. None of them were related to her research, she knew, but they still tempted her. Giving in, she lifted the top two and examined each in turn. The third book in the pile caught her eye, and she picked it up, realizing it was the copy of Ars, Physica, Sapientia Snape had returned to her at the Yule Ball. Perhaps it was time for a re-reading? She flipped to the table of contents, scanning it idly, and had progressed to thumbing through the middle of the book for good bits, when a piece of paper slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Stooping to pick it up, Hermione was surprised to see her own handwriting on the worn and dog-eared page.   
  
After a moment's surprise, she recognized the note she had written to Snape all those years ago, when she had first lent him the volume. He must have kept it along with the book, she thought. Then she realized the page had, at some point, been folded. It looked, in fact, as if it had been folded and carried about in a pocket; the crease-lines were worn nearly through, and the grubby sheet retained a slight curve between each fold. Looking closer, she made out faint, smudged fingerprints on the edges of the paper. Somebody had held this note often, taken it out and looked at it. Snape had looked at it. Snape had carried it around in his pocket.   
  
No longer interested in reading, Hermione put the book aside and held the note in her hands, staring at it, as if she might gain some deeper meaning from it if she studied it long enough. Finally, she folded it up – it folded easily, the creases were so imprinted – and placed it carefully in the pocket of the robe she planned to wear the next day. 


	14. Let's Misbehave

Let's Misbehave  
  
We're all alone, no chaperone  
Can get our number  
The world's in slumber  
Let's misbehave!  
  
There's something wild about you, child   
That's so contagious  
Let's be outrageous  
Let's misbehave!  
  
When Adam won Eve's hand  
He wouldn't stand for teasin'  
He didn't care about those   
Apples out of season.  
  
They say the spring means just one thing  
To little lovebirds  
We're not above birds  
Let's misbehave!  
  
  
It was sheer coincidence that finally allowed Harry to corner Ginny. On a blustery Saturday in early February, he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, only to spy Molly and Arthur Weasley just disappearing into a shop down the street. Deciding his errands on Diagon Alley could wait, Harry left at once and Apparated to the Burrow.   
  
"Hello?" he called out, stepping into the kitchen when his knock on the door went unanswered. "Anyone at home?"   
  
A faint clumping sound from upstairs indicated that either a person or the resident ghoul was indeed at home.   
  
Trying his luck, Harry ventured further into the house, stopping halfway up the first flight of stairs. "Hello?"  
  
"Harry?" came Ginny's muffled voice. Harry took two steps at a time, fetching up on the third landing and finding Ginny's door closed. He was just raising his hand to knock when he heard a noise behind him, and spun around. There, clad only in a fuzzy, purple bathrobe, stood a damp and bewildered Ginny.   
  
"You know Ron's at practice. What are you doing here?" this vision asked, sidling around Harry to open the door to her bedroom. Then she stopped, realizing the even greater impropriety of talking to Harry in a bathrobe while in her bedroom; she turned to block the doorway with her narrow frame.   
  
"I came to see you," Harry said fervently, trying not to think about whether Ginny was wearing anything under the robe. "I needed to explain why I was so… such a git, at the Ball. I didn't mean it, really. Please, can't we just talk about it?"   
  
"Harry, you were the one who said it wasn't a good idea. So, what, now you're changing your mind? It's been over a month since the Ball. I don't care to be messed about. We've known each other too long to play stupid games about this, haven't we?" Ginny sighed and fussed with the ends of her hair, which hung in long wet tendrils over her shoulders.   
  
"We have. You're absolutely right. Just give me a chance to explain?" At her nod, he relaxed perceptibly, looking past her into her room. "Erm -- could we sit down, maybe?"   
  
"Oh, fine." Ginny turned and entered the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and gesturing towards the narrow-backed hard chair at her desk. "Have a seat, then. But if my parents come back, you'll need to get out of my room before they catch you here or we'll both be for the drop."   
  
Harry took the offered chair, and then hesitated, not sure where to start. "I didn't mean to wait so long," he finally began, "but it's just been impossible to see you alone. You're always with your family, or with Hermione, or-"  
  
"You've never heard of owls? What's Hedwig doing these days, Harry? You could've just asked me out, you know," Ginny said, none too gently.   
  
"Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I suppose I could. I'm sorry, Gin, I just… didn't think of asking you on a date."  
  
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Harry," she said, shaking her head. "Go on to something else, before you bury yourself any further."  
  
"Ginny, I just don't know how to do this. I was a hopeless failure at all my school romances, and I know you're used to chaps with all sorts of expertise at this. I, erm, really do fancy you. I mean I like you, as a person. But I don't just think of you as Ron's little sister. I respect you, and I can't stop thinking about you. Oh, bloody hell." He hung his head in his hands, certain he was doomed, and for a moment felt even more devastated when he heard Ginny's soft, snuffling giggle. Then her hand was on his cheek, softly raising his head. He met her smiling eyes, and gave a tentative smile back as he fell under their warm brown spell. He was hopelessly out of his depth, and in that moment he knew it. But he continued, with dogged determination.  
  
"Then when you said what you did -- about the first time you saw me -- it was just so much to take in. What must you expect of me? How could I ever live up to that, if you'd been thinking about it for that long?"  
  
Ginny's face clouded over with embarrassment, and she pulled back to return to her seat on the bed. "I'm really sorry, Harry. I shouldn't have put it that way. It really isn't like that at all. It's hard to explain, but…I'm sure at first it was just the whole celebrity thing," Ginny went on, quietly but resolutely. "I mean, I was just a little kid, and all of a sudden Harry Potter was my brother's best friend. Then after a few years of knowing you, it sort of changed. For a while, around my third and fourth year or so, I didn't think about you at all. Not like that, anyway. In fact I thought you were sort of awful. My fifth year wasn't too bad -- I was busy with all that Prefect rot -- but then sixth, I realized it was your last year. I was a real mess for a while. Then about the time you went off and nearly died yet again, it hit me that it wasn't a silly little kid thing now. Because you weren't 'Harry Potter, Boy Who Whatever,' to me, you were just plain old Harry. And I couldn't bear to think of losing you."   
  
"I see…" said Harry, pondering her words. "So you grew to like me only when you realized I wasn't actually special at all?" She caught the smile playing around his lips, and felt suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was naked under her fuzzy robe.   
  
"I always liked you, Harry," she said softly.  
  
"Even when you were dating Dean? And Michael? And—"  
  
"Stop," she laughed, "don't remind me!"  
  
"I would rather make you forget," he said, pleased with this rejoinder. He usually only thought of the right thing to say days afterward. Ginny seemed to be looking at him expectantly, and he slid from the chair to the bed, sitting next to Ginny and leaning in a little awkwardly to kiss her. He tasted her lips, and shivered at the flick of her tongue as she responded.   
  
Bracing himself on one hand, Harry began stroking Ginny's arm slowly as he kissed her, running his fingers lightly over the nubbly texture of the thick terry-cloth robe. Finally, encouraged by the deepening kiss and the feel of her hands running up his shoulders and into his hair, he shifted his hand ever so slightly to brush one firm breast beneath the heavy fabric of the robe. When Ginny leaned into his touch, he felt himself harden. Wanting nothing so much as to grab her hand and pull it to his growing erection, he schooled himself to patience and concentrated on her breast, relishing its tender curves and enjoying the realization that he could feel her nipple pebbling, even through the robe.   
  
Harry began to place meandering kisses down the side of Ginny's lovely, long neck, the heady fragrance of her freshly shampooed hair almost dizzying him. He let his hand wander down to her waist, her hip, loving the feel of her perfect thigh as he traced its length down to the knee and back up again. When his hand curved around to cup her shapely arse, Ginny moaned softly, and slid one hand down his back to reciprocate.   
  
At some point, Harry raised his head, wondering when and how they had become horizontal. Ginny, beneath him, fluttered her eyes open and looked up with a startled expression. The sight of her there, with her hair spread out like flames over the white pillow, and the fuzzy purple bathrobe pulled askew, revealing her cleavage and a great deal of one breast, was nearly Harry's undoing. Gently, with trembling fingers, he found the sash to the robe and pulled the knot open.   
  
He met Ginny's eyes and found them half-closed, glazed with desire; while he himself could scarcely breathe at all, Ginny's chest rose and fell rapidly with each shaking breath, and when he placed one tentative hand between her breasts, Harry could feel her heart pounding. He slipped both his hands beneath the robe, and her eyes closed as she arched her back into the delicious sensation of his questing fingers on her nipples. Pulling the robe back slowly, he finally revealed her and gave a little moan of his own, reveling in the sight. Bending down, he took one russet nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, and slipping his tongue over the rough bud. Ginny cried out his name, and held his head closer still, almost climaxing with the rush of unfamiliar stimulation as Harry flicked and slid his tongue over one nipple then the other.   
  
Emboldened by his success, Harry gave her breast a parting nuzzle, and began slowly working his way down her body, opening the robe bit by bit as he went. He laved her stomach with quick strokes of his tongue, finding ticklish spots to each side of her navel. Playfully using his teeth to move the untied sash ends out of the way, he bent his attention at last to the thatch of silky, ginger curls. Ginny's heart, had he but known it, was beating harder than ever as she felt his hot breath on her virgin mound. He tickled her hair with his nose, murmuring that he liked how her soap smelled, which elicited a nervous giggle from Ginny. The giggle was cut off by a gasp when his tongue flicked out, just grazing the crease between her hip and thigh. The sudden, burning need felt almost painful, it was so intense.   
  
Harry grinned at her reaction, and shifted his body down the bed, lifting Ginny's leg and ducking under to settle between her long, trim thighs. At the first touch of his tongue to her throbbing clit, Ginny began whimpering, moving her hips in time to his strokes without realizing it, so badly did she ache for him to continue. He groaned appreciatively, and the vibration brought her another jolt of pleasure. Not until she felt his fingers brushing against her folds, did Ginny realize through her pleasure-drugged haze that if he moved his finger another half-inch he would find out her secret on his own.   
  
Then, several things happened at once.   
  
Ginny, sitting upright on the bed, cried, "Wait!" and twined her fingers in Harry's hair to pull him away.   
  
The door to Ginny's bedroom flew open, and a cheerful Molly Weasley, carrying an armload of shopping bags, burst into the room and stopped dead, her mouth falling open and the shopping bags falling forgotten to the floor.  
  
Ginny and her mother both screamed, with equal volume, although for very different reasons.  
  
Harry, mortally terrified, sprang off the bed, tripped over the chair, fell flat on his face at Molly's feet and just waited, his eyes closed, for the Killing Curse he knew she must be preparing to aim at him.   
  
A moment of horrified silence ensued.   
  
The voice of her husband from the stair landing galvanized Molly Weasley into action. Kicking the bags out of the way, she closed the door, calling out in a breezy tone, "Ginny isn't decent, dear. Go back downstairs and we'll be down in a moment!"   
  
Harry summoned the bravery to open his eyes, as Molly stepped over his prone form to the bed and snatched Ginny's bathrobe back into place. Ginny tried to protest when Molly turned back around and fixed her frightening gaze on Harry, but fell silent again as her mother gave her a glare that would make a basilisk envious. Gripping Harry's earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, Molly pulled him up off the floor, ignoring his frantically whispered cries of pain.   
  
Still holding him firmly by the ear, she raised the other hand and pointed at him, punctuating her hissed speech with little shakes of her finger at him. "You should  _thank_  your lucky  _stars_  Arthur didn't find you.  _He_  would have  _killed_  you on the  _spot_  for  _defiling his little girl!_ "  
  
"Yes, Mrs. Weasley, I know, ma'am, I am so very, very sorry, but –"  
  
"And  _you_!" she whispered furiously, brandishing the finger at Ginny, "I assumed I could trust you, and  _this_  is how you behave? Have you no _sense_?"   
  
"Mum, please, I just –"  
  
"Quiet!" Molly finally released Harry's ear, to his relief, and stood thinking for a moment. When she spoke again, it was in a soft, measured tone that Harry had never heard before.   
  
"Ginevra, you will stay here and get dressed. When you are appropriately clothed, come downstairs. Harry, you will follow me down now and stay for dinner. Ginny's father will not learn about this little… incident, until later. When I've had time to think about the best way to tell him. So you will both sit through dinner, behaving as if nothing had happened, and the entire time you'll both know that  _I know_." With that, the formidable little woman opened the door and swept out, not needing to look back to know that Harry would follow as instructed. He shot Ginny a final, miserable look, which she returned, as he closed the door behind him.   
  
Harry had realized, halfway through Molly's speech, what the tone in her voice was; he had heard it, actually, but he had never really heard it directed at himself before. Only at Percy, years ago. It was disappointment.


	15. I've Got You Under My Skin

I’ve Got You Under My Skin  
  
I've got you under my skin  
I've got you deep in the heart of me  
So deep in my heart you're really a part of me  
I've got you under my skin  
I'd tried so not to give in  
I said to myself this affair never will go so well  
But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well  
I've got you under my skin  
  
I'd sacrifice anything come what might  
For the sake of havin' you near  
In spite of a warnin' voice that comes in the night  
And repeats and repeats in my ear:  
Don't you know, little fool, you never can win  
Use your mentality, wake up to reality  
But each time that I do just the thought of you  
Makes me stop before I begin  
'Cause I've got you under my skin.  
  
  
Hermione was going to have to give some serious thought to her research. Soon, she promised herself. It would have her undivided attention, soon. But, for now, her thoughts seemed divided between the note tucked in her pocket, and the angst-laden self-deprecations of Neville, who now seemed certain he was destined to live alone and die a miserable old bachelor.   
  
"She wasn't the one, Hermione. But she  _was_  the one, the  _only_  one I felt that way about. She never felt that way about me, though. I know that. I  _know_  that!" he said, a bit too loudly, slamming his hand on the tabletop. At her raised eyebrow, Neville had the grace to look abashed. Hermione wondered briefly what quality in her demeanor seemed to invite these sorts of confidences from the men of her acquaintance.  
  
"Of course she didn't want me," Neville went on despondently. "Look at me. Who would want me? I have nothing to offer. I'm boring, and sort of funny-looking-- and I think I'm starting to lose my hair."  
  
"Neville, stop being so utterly ridiculous for one moment, will you?" Hermione finally insisted, putting down the parchment she'd been pretending to work on. "What on earth has gotten into you this morning? It's weeks and weeks since the Ball. I thought you were past all this."  
  
"It isn't the Ball, it's just…" With a sigh, Neville put down the ledger he'd stopped pretending to work on, and rested his head on his hands, the picture of abject misery. "It's just… Snape."  
  
" _Professor_  Snape," corrected Hermione automatically. "What about him?"  
  
"Well -- God, this is so humiliating. I can't even understand it."  
  
"Neville…" she prompted impatiently.  
  
"It's like nothing has changed since first year. Like I'm back in his class again. Every time I see him, I try to remind myself I'm a grownup, that I don't need to fear him anymore, that he has no power over me. But I end up cringing and whimpering all the same. My mouth goes dry, my palms get all sweaty. Why can't I get over it? First Ginny, and now this, every blasted day. I thought I was long past all this, and I'm not. I'm not! I'm such a pathetic gumby!"  
  
Although she privately agreed with him at that moment, Hermione felt compelled to say something consoling. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, she came up with a plan to cure Neville of his unreasonable fear of Snape once and for all.  
  
"Neville, I do have an idea if you'd like-- oh, never mind. I'm sure you wouldn't be interested," she said slyly, knowing he would take the bait.  
  
"What? What's your idea? Anything's better than the way things are now," he said, raising his head and looking at her with desperation.  
  
"Well… only it's a little sneaky. I'd need to get a certain potion, and make some other arrangements."   
  
"A potion? For what? Would it be something permanent?" Concern started to override the desperation on his face, and Hermione rushed to reassure him.   
  
"No, no, nothing permanent," she said soothingly. "It's a very simple potion, really, and the effects only last a few hours… but the choices you make during those few hours can have lasting impact. Look, don't you worry about it, Neville. I'll get everything set up for you, and let you know when it's time to take the potion. For now, let's just get back to work on this. We've wasted enough time already!"   
  
Within a few minutes, the newly hopeful Neville was happily preparing to interview another student, while Hermione entered data from their last three interviews into the growing charts of itemized and cross-referenced variables they had begun to develop.   
  
Only Hermione knew that her mind wasn't fully on her work. As soon as she had hatched her plan to help Neville, her thoughts had crept back to the note still lurking in her pocket; what's more, she now had the added problem of acquiring an empty potion vial.   
  


***

  
Knowing she could address two needs at once – the empty vial, and finding a way to return the note to Snape, as she'd decided to do – Hermione made her way to the dungeon that night as soon as dinner was over. Snape had not appeared at the meal, and she was reticent to see him unannounced, but ultimately decided that the element of surprise might actually give her the upper hand. Worth a try, at least. It was not as though her work was permitting time for an actual date, even if an offer had been forthcoming. Clearly, things were going to have to take a different course, if progress was to be made.  
  
Hermione had to work to ignore the small voice in the back of her mind that kept pointing out she could just get a vial in Hogsmeade, and just pretend she'd never found the note. Accustomed as she was to following that voice's every dictate, she found the experience of proceeding against it recklessly to be rather liberating. Exhilarating, even… or perhaps that was just the increasing chill in the air, as she descended the stairs to the dungeon level.  
  
The Potions lab seemed empty when she arrived, although the door was unlocked and unwarded. Passing between the tables and shivering a little in the dank cold of the dungeon, she started to call out, 'Professor,' then stopped herself, smiling at her own ingrained habit.   
  
"Severus," she said softly, and was rewarded with a muffled, but clearly irritated, response from the supply closet. He emerged a moment later with a stone mortar and pestle in one hand, and stopped when he realized whom his visitor was.   
  
"For some reason I thought it was Minerva," he said after a moment, still sounding mildly irritated. "Usually, if anyone sees fit to interrupt my private evening hours, it is she. What brings you here, Miss Granger?" He spoke without looking at her, having moved to a worktable that held a brazier, already lit, a bowl of some sort of fine, white crystals, and a bowl of large, brown, wrinkled seeds. Adding a measure of seeds and a lesser amount of the white substance to the mortar, and settling it into an iron stand over the low flame, Snape began grinding the ingredients with a quick, practiced motion.   
  
"Actually, I have a favor to ask of you," Hermione said, "and something to offer in return."   
  
His interest piqued, Snape looked up with a quizzical expression, never stopping the efficient movements of his hands. Steeling her courage and walking closer to perch on a stool next to the table, Hermione continued, in a rush, "It seems Neville is still terrified of you, and it's making it almost impossible to work with him on this project. I want to help him feel better about himself. I want to give him something to help him feel brave, then let him confront you. And when he does, I want you to behave as though he were a perfectly reasonable adult, and not be brutal with him, so he feels he's faced his fear and come away victorious." Eyeing Snape warily, she added, "And I need to borrow an empty potion vial. Please?"  
  
At first, Snape was too startled to respond. Then, with what he knew Hermione would think of as typical Slytherin thinking, he skipped over the request and went straight to the quid pro quo.  
  
"And, in return…?" He was already smirking, which Hermione decided to take as a good sign for her, though perhaps not a good one for Neville.  
  
"In return…" She slipped the folded note from her pocket, and placed it carefully on the corner of the table, next to the ingredient bowls. Then she sat, looking studiously down at the note, her lower lip tucked automatically between her teeth as she waited anxiously for Snape's response.   
  
"I wondered where that had gotten off to," he finally said, very quietly. He turned off the flame beneath the mortar and walked around the corner of the table to stand in front of the stool on which Hermione sat. Reaching for her chin with one slender hand, he tipped her head up and studied her, his own face expressionless. Only a tightening around his thin lips, and the slight flaring of his nostrils, gave away his tension.   
  
At last he spoke again, so softly she could barely hear him, almost as if it caused him pain to admit this to her: "I'll do whatever you wish. I would do anything to get that back." His hand began to tremble, and she raised her own to press it closer to her cheek.   
  
"Anything?" said Hermione, a little overwhelmed by his unexpectedly emotional response. She was reassured when he smirked a little and raised one raven brow at her.  
  
"Anything," he replied, in his silkiest Potions master voice, and Hermione felt a thrill chase down her stomach to her thighs. "And you, Hermione? What are you willing to do?" He leaned in closer still, bringing his other hand up and cupping her face gently.  
  
"Anything," she whispered, mesmerized by the nearness of him, his velvety voice boldly fondling her name, and his impossibly black eyes. Unconsciously, she licked her lips in anticipation of the kiss she expected.  
  
But he did not allow himself the kiss he wanted to take. His idea of "anything," as it happened, was being in absolute control. And his idea of a good way to spend the rest of the night was to make Hermione Granger want him so badly, her own control would be hopelessly, spectacularly, shattered.   
  
Sliding one hand back to wrap around the hair that, today, ran in a thick braid down her back, he trailed the fingers of his other hand down to caress her neck and trace her collarbones. He ran one fingertip delicately over the silken robe covering her breastbone, savoring both the play of the fabric over the skin beneath, and the tiny hum of pleasure that escaped her lips. When her eyes drifted shut, he brought her back with a firmer grip on her hair, and a soft command.  
  
"Keep your eyes open," he said almost absently, loosing her hair and bringing both hands down smoothly over her breasts, eliciting a gasp as her eyes flew open and found his again. But his hands continued on their way, reaching out for hers, and tugging them behind her to place them on the edge of the stool. "Leave your hands there," he murmured, and she obeyed, not knowing quite why, but feeling a perverse excitement at letting him be in control. Snape brushed the backs of his fingertips across her nipples, which had already risen as if at his bidding, then turned his hands to fondle both breasts briefly again. Slowly, his eyes still locked on hers, he began exploring her body with his sensitive hands, caressing her through the silk robe and layers of clothing beneath, lingering to stroke her hips with slow, deliberate circles that drove Hermione wild. He was standing so close they were almost nose to formidable nose, and when Hermione trembled, he felt the lightest vibration of her legs against the fabric of his trousers.   
  
Stepping closer still, Snape began slowly unbuttoning Hermione's outer robe, allowing the backs of his fingers to caress her only lightly as he unfastened the garment to her waist and slid it off her shoulders, letting it pool around her hips. To Hermione's surprise, the charm he whispered next removed only her jumper, and his agile fingers began tracing the same delicate course down the buttons of her cotton blouse.  
  
"Oh, for the love of—Hermione, how many layers are you wearing, anyway?" he finally asked, plucking at the thermal vest beneath her blouse, and confirming with another perfunctory grope that a bra lay beneath that.   
  
"It's cold down here," she protested. "This place has always been drafty in the winter."  
  
Muttering a Warming Charm, Snape began working in a somewhat more practical manner, standing Hermione up and raising her arms over her head to facilitate the speedy and complete removal of the robe, shirt, vest, and after a moment's thought, the jeans she had been hiding beneath the robe. A little startled at the change of pace, Hermione found herself pulled around a bit like a rag doll, disrobed to her foundation garments, then picked up around the waist and placed almost forcibly back on the stool as she had been, Snape taking her hands in his and pressing them around the seat with another admonishment to leave them there.   
  
It took Hermione a moment to realize she was now sitting in front of the Potions master in nothing but her bra and knickers ( _when the Hell did he get my shoes and socks off?_ ), and that he was staring at her like a starving man at a banquet, wondering where to begin.   
  
Snape paused to admire her a moment longer, his frankly appreciative gaze making Hermione feel quite naked. "I'm going to lock and ward the doors now," he said at last, in a voice that warmed her as efficiently as the earlier charm had, "so you should tell me now if you want to leave." At the tiniest shake of her head, he shut the world out, hid his wand once more, and took Hermione's hands in his, drawing her off the stool to stand in front of him.  
  
Hermione tried to meet Snape's gaze, but found her eyes drifting shut as his hands slipped from hers and covered her shoulders, sliding down her back to unfasten the hook on her bra. When the lacy thing fell away, he let his hands wander down her back unimpeded, stroking the soft skin over her spine and waist, playing back up to cup her breasts. Dipping his head, he caught first one nipple then the other in his lips, suckling briefly until the rosy tips responded. Brushing his thumbs up over the peaks, he toyed with them in a maddeningly slow rhythm, feeling Hermione's breath catch and quicken as he raised his head and found her lips with his.   
  
Hermione felt almost drugged with anticipation and pleasure, alive from head to toe, but strangely passive. She didn't want to move, didn't want to destroy the spell that seemed woven over the two of them. As he nipped and licked at her lips, gently urging her mouth open with his own, he let his hands wander down to her waist once more. Not until they slid lower still, cupping her arse and drawing her sharply near, did his kiss deepen and Hermione feel her strange lassitude torn away. Whimpering, she twined her hands in his hair and ground herself closer, snaking one leg around his hip, and gasping when he thrust his hands roughly beneath the thin silk of her knickers to fondle her arse. Curling his long fingers around, he teased the tender skin at the crease of her buttocks and thighs, growling in approval as she slung her leg higher, humming in pleasure at the intimate contact.  
  
"You do realize I still haven't taken you on a proper date yet. I gather that's no longer a concern?" Snape whispered, nibbling his way along Hermione's jaw line and producing a startled yelp from her as he teasingly nipped at her earlobe.   
  
"Do I seem concerned?" she replied hoarsely, her words nearly cut off by the little moan that escaped her when Snape stopped nipping and began suckling on the tender lobe of flesh.   
  
"No. Which is good. I've always wanted to shag a beautiful woman senseless right here in the dungeon," Snape blurted out, pulling away just enough to sweep Hermione off the ground and swing her towards the nearest table.  
  
"No, the desk," she cried, before she had time to think.   
  
Snape looked down at her, nonplused. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"The desk?" she repeated shyly, glancing longingly towards the piece of furniture in question.   
  
In four long strides, Snape covered the distance to the desk, hesitated a moment, then stood Hermione up again next to it. With a dramatic gesture, he swept most of the objects on the desk off onto the floor, the parchment scrolls flying in every direction. Just as suddenly as she'd found herself standing, Hermione found herself scooped up again and deposited prone on the desk, the Potions master leaning over her with an appraising eye.   
  
"Better?" he asked, with an uncharacteristic look of amusement. He gave her no chance to respond, but leaned in to kiss her again, his hands already working their way down her body, one slipping under the thin silk of her knickers to cup her boldly, possessively.   
  
Hermione made a half-hearted attempt to start unbuttoning Snape's frock coat (all black tonight, some part of her brain noticed), but he firmly removed her hands and placed them back beside her on the desk before resuming his attentions.   
  
"Later," he murmured between kisses, applying a maddeningly faint amount of pressure with his hand. When she arched into him, moaning, he merely smirked and pulled his fingers away. Hermione's frustrated cry ended with an eager whimper when she realized he had withdrawn only to slide her last garment down her legs, leaving her naked and defenseless on his desk. It felt wicked and delicious, she realized, then stopped thinking as she met Snape's eyes again. The predatory gleam made her heart beat faster still, and she licked her lips nervously as he prowled around to the other side of the desk. Snape's restraint seemed deceptive, anticipatory, and Hermione had to quell a nervous giggle at the sudden impression that he was preparing to bite her.   
  
Still holding her gaze, Snape slid Hermione a bit closer to the side of the desk, and then startled her by swinging her legs off the edge and planting himself firmly between them as he seated himself in his desk chair. He did actually bite her then, a lingering love-bite on the inner thigh, leaving a mark she would only notice the following morning. The mingled sensations of pain and pleasure almost distracted Hermione from the subtle incursion of fingers, tracing the outside folds of her nether lips with careful deliberation. Soothing the bitten spot with a kiss, Snape finally bent his head forward just enough to let his tongue trace along behind one finger.   
  
For an endless moment, Hermione neither knew nor cared which part of Snape was performing the delicate teasing ritual that left her achingly aroused, and desperately needing more. Tongue and fingers alternated, slipped deeper, then pulled back, seeming to catalogue the responses each movement drew. But at last, as if he could wait no longer, Snape leaned forward that fraction more. His tongue pushed past the delicate pleats of flesh, and he dipped it inside her, thrusting slowly.   
  
Hermione gave an inarticulate cry as she felt the climax start to build. Through half-closed eyes, she could see Snape's dark head between her legs, his long hands wrapped around her upper thighs, pulling them still further apart. Her frequent fantasy, come to life, was the most erotic sight she'd ever beheld. As she watched, he slid one hand around still further to find her clit with an insistent thumb. When his thumb began to match strokes with his tongue, Hermione finally came apart, screaming his name as she lost herself in the bliss that swept through her.  
  
She came back to her senses, hearing only the sounds of her own ragged breathing and the gentle splash of water from the stone gargoyle spigot in the corner. Her dark lover was silent, unreadable, as he kissed his way up her body to her mouth, bracing himself over her as he nipped at her lower lip. Finally, he stood and made his way back around to the front of the desk, tugging her up to stand in front of him, on legs still shaky from her recent ecstasy.   
  
"Your turn," he whispered, drawing her fingers to the buttons of his coat. Needing no further urging, Hermione fell to the task of unveiling the Potions master, her nimble fingers making short work of the frock coat buttons. She pushed the surprisingly heavy garment back from his shoulders, and almost let it fall to the floor; then, with a somewhat impish grin, she gave it a shake, and draped it neatly over the table behind Snape before resuming her unfastening. Beneath the frock coat, he wore only a white lawn collarless shirt, and black gabardine trousers. Nothing beneath the shirt, she noted happily, taking time to trail her fingers along his skin as she unbuttoned. Unable to resist, she nuzzled her nose beneath the half-open placket, placing soft kisses on each newly revealed patch of chest as she worked her way down.  
  
In her haste, Hermione forgot the buttons on Snape's cuffs, and he awarded her a wry smile as she pulled his sleeves part of the way back on, to remedy her error and free his hands. But soon enough, the shirt joined the coat on the table, and Hermione was able to run her hands across Snape's chest, unimpeded, reveling in the unexpected warmth of his pale skin, and the crisp, black hairs that grew in surprising disarray across his breastbone and down the center line of his stomach.   
  
He was too thin, she thought in passing, tracing the faint outline of his ribs with both hands and leaning in to take a nipple into her mouth. Her hands slipped down to the waistband of his trousers, finding more buttons and dealing with them efficiently. When she pulled them out and down, taking his boxer shorts off at the same time, she slid herself down as well, ending on her knees in front of him. Leaving the pile of wool and cotton puddling at his feet, she rubbed a silky cheek against the equally soft skin of his erection. When she ran her fingertips over his balls, and suckled gently on the underside of his shaft, Snape groaned and leaned into her, tangling his fingers in her hair as he flexed his narrow hips.   
  
Hermione tried to catch the tip of his prick with her eager lips, but Snape pulled away with another groan and took her hands to raise her to her feet again. She gleefully attacked his mouth instead, latching onto him in a kiss as he grasped her around the waist and lifted her back onto the desk. Her legs snaked around his hips, and she reached down to wrap one hand gently around the welcome hardness, bringing it closer.  
  
Freeing his mouth from Hermione's, and delving with his nose into the fragrant warmth of the hair behind her ear, Snape murmured something she didn't quite catch. She heard a rustle as he freed his feet from their fabric confines and kicked his clothes to one side.  
  
"Mmmm?" she said, hoping he wasn't about to turn chatty, as she doubted she was capable of anything remotely resembling intelligent conversation at that point.  
  
"I said, do I need to take precautions of any kind?" Snape repeated, sighing into her neck.   
  
"Oh! Erm, no, actually. I'm on the Pill. It's a Muggle thin—"  
  
"Hermione, please. I was a teenager in the mid-seventies. I know what the Pill is."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Good."  
  
For a moment they were still, holding one another without moving or speaking. Then Snape raised his head and looked at her, watching her reaction as he leaned closer and began gently stroking her pussy, slipping one finger inside, then drawing it out and sliding it over her folds again, moistening them even further. Hermione blushed with passion, and began coaxing him closer with gentle strokes until he was poised at her entrance. She felt lost in his eyes as he entered her, his thin lips curved in a thoughtful frown that melted into a gasp as he felt her heat surround him. He started to thrust gently, Hermione rocking her hips to match his rhythm, both of them slightly stunned by the quiet intensity of the moment. Soon, however, rising lust trumped their emotion, and their pace quickened, each of them perilously close to the edge, but neither willing to let go.  
  
By the time she felt the orgasm reaching its crest, Hermione had clutched herself to Snape's chest, her mouth seeking his skin as if for comfort, as the waves of sensation threatened to overwhelm her. Snape's head was thrown back, his lank hair falling over Hermione's hands on his shoulders, his control all but gone as he keened with pleasure.   
  
When she whispered his name, only once, and began shuddering and contracting around him, Snape cried out and thrust deeper still, emptying himself within her as if he would gift her with his very soul. 


	16. You Do Something to Me (Reprise)

_Dear Hermione,_  
  
I just had the strangest owl from Neville. Something about a potion, and Snape? I hope you know what you're doing. Neville seems excited and nervous about it, though.   
  
To answer your question, I did finally talk to Ginny. We got some things straightened out, but for various reasons we haven't been able to spend much time together since then. Things are still a little up in the air. I'll let you know what happens, and probably you and Ginny will talk, of course. Speaking of that, if you do happen to talk to Ginny, could you tell her to try the Floo in my kitchen this Friday night at eleven? She'll know what you mean.   
  
Thanks!  
  
Love, Harry  


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***  


 __  
Dear Harry,  
  
Thanks for your lovely letter, so much longer than your usual terse missives. You actually wrote more than one paragraph; I'm quite proud of you.   
  
With respect to Neville, your concerns are appreciated, but unwarranted. Neville will come to no harm as long as he follows the instructions I give him. I have gone to considerable lengths to ensure a positive outcome. After the event in question, I will provide you with more details; however, at this time, the less you know, the better.   
  
I haven't heard from Ginny recently, but will certainly pass along your message. Is there some reason you can't speak with her yourself? I thought you were practically living at the Burrow these days.   
  
Speaking of living, have you decided yet how to make yours, now you are no longer employed at Hogwarts? Quite a bit of time has gone by, and you can't live on your savings forever, Harry. Even though I realize it might be financially feasible, I can't imagine it would make a rewarding life for you. I just want to remind you to keep investigating all possibilities.  
  
Love, Hermione  


 __  
***  


_Dear Hermione,_  
  
I feel like a prisoner in my own home! Not that it feels much like a home these days, with all the tension in the air. I'm sure Harry's told you what happened, and how, when Dad found out, he as much as banished Harry from the Burrow! He and Mum won't let me go anywhere without telling them who I'll be with, when I'll be back, why I need to go out in the first place… as if I were still a child! I realize I don't actually have to do what they tell me anymore, as in fact I am NOT a child; I was legally more than entitled to be doing all I was doing and then some. And it was so amazing, Hermione! But for now, I am simply trying to keep the peace while I look for someplace else to stay.   
  
Which brings me to the real point of this letter, which is to ask you how you'd feel about my borrowing your flat until you finish your research at Hogwarts? I know that's only a few weeks away now, but at least it would get me out of the house a bit sooner. I'm making enough money working at Fred and George's, now, that I can easily afford my own place; really, I should have moved months ago. Then this whole awkwardness could have been avoided.   
  
Let me know, and also let me know how things are going with your research and your, ahem, private studies? And how's poor Neville? Still stuck in the doldrums? I miss being friends with him…if he seems amenable, tell him I said hello.   
  
One last thing: as Mum and Dad are watching the Floo like hawks, and they would obviously know if I posted a letter to Harry with one of our owls, could you pass a message along to him for me? Just tell him to be patient, and that Dad didn't really mean it about what he was going to charm those Muggle pliers to do.   
  
I hope to hear from you very soon,   
  
Love, An Impatient Ginny   


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***  


_Dear Ginny,_  
  
Of course you are welcome to use my flat. I have enclosed a spare key with this letter. You may stay as long as you like, even after I'm back if need be; I don't mind having a flatmate, as long as you don't take my books off the shelves and put them back in the wrong places. Be warned that the hot and cold taps in the bath are reversed!   
  
I must say Harry has not told me much of anything, so I have no idea what dire thing might have happened between you, to result in Harry's banishment from the Burrow. From your remarks, I have my suspicions; however, I sincerely hope my suspicions are wrong, because otherwise I suspect your Dad might well have meant whatever he said to Harry about the pliers. I know my Dad would.   
  
Please send me a more detailed letter—although perhaps you should spare any truly gory details and just send a rough outline, highlighting the most salient points.   
  
My research – all of it – goes splendidly. I will spare you my own gory details, of which I will only say there are many.   
  
Harry asked me to relay a message: try the Floo at his kitchen this Friday night at eleven. Shall I just tell him to contact you directly once you're at my flat? Or may I safely assume he'll be joining you in residence there? Since Ron's more or less living at Grimmauld Place, I don't suppose you and Harry intend to spend too much of your time at his place.   
  
Yours in friendly confusion,   
  
Hermione   


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***  


As Hermione tied the message scroll to the owl's leg and opened the window to send the bird on its way, the last of the dim winter sunlight caught the edge of the vial on her desk, sparkling through the amber liquid and giving a fleeting impression of unseasonable warmth. Picking up the bottle, which held about a half-pint of the fluid, Hermione headed cheerfully out of her room, still uneasy about what had transpired at the Burrow, but happy she was able to help Ginny and Harry with the loan of her flat.   
  
Neville was still hard at work when she reached the room they used for their research, and she watched him for a minute before he realized she was there. He was bent over the table with an expression of deep concentration, as if he were taking extra care even with his thoughts about the subject at hand. She had read somewhere that women were most likely to find men attractive when they saw them engaged in work, and she finally recognized the truth in this.   
  
Despite having slimmed down considerably with maturity, Neville still somehow gave the impression of softness at times, his baby face and hesitant ways belying the tremendous depths of strength and courage Hermione had seen him draw on again and again. But in this unguarded moment, he so clearly knew what he was doing that his expression become compelling, and somehow trust-inspiring. He seemed confident, and the type of man who could keep someone happy and secure; in short, husband material. She could actually see the appeal of Neville for once, even if she didn't find him appealing for herself. He deserved to feel proud of himself, and have someone who felt proud to stand beside him, she thought, as she cleared her throat at last to draw his attention.   
  
"Oh, hello, Hermione. I didn't even hear you come in. I think I've just about finished for the evening. Are you ready to go to dinner? I think it's a bit early, though." Just then he saw the vial in her hand, and stopped, his mouth hanging open a bit. "Erm, is that --?"  
  
"Yes, it is. You'll need to take it now, so it will have time to take effect as we take a slow walk down to the dungeons. Here you are." She uncorked the vial and held it out. Neville made no move to take it, but simply stared at it.   
  
"The dungeons? We have to go down there?"  
  
"Yes, of course," she said matter-of-factly. "That's where the dreaded Potions master dwells in his hoary lair. Come on now, Neville, have courage. Drink it down, about half the bottle in one go now. We'll check to make sure it's working, then you can have the second dose if you need it before we get to the dungeons." She pressed the vial into his reluctant hand, and he started to raise it to his lips, wrinkling his nose a little at the smell.   
  
"How will I feel, once I take it?" he asked.   
  
"Probably ghastly, right afterwards. It burns horribly, going down. But then a warmth, perhaps a tingling, radiating from the stomach. After several minutes, you'll begin to feel some tingling in your extremities and lips as well, and a sense of lowered inhibitions, perhaps even fearlessness. By that time, we'll be down to the dungeons, and you'll find yourself able to tell Professor Snape what you want to tell him. If all goes well, you should have no immediate anxiety about the consequences, although you may feel some as a residual effect of the potion once it's worn off. That's natural. But you'll get over it. And you'll never be afraid of the Potions master again, once you've gotten through this. That's the important thing. So, come on, now," she encouraged him. "Bottoms up!"  
  
With a grimace, Neville held his nose and tipped the vial back, gulping down half its contents in a single swig. A few minutes later they were on their way downstairs, Hermione watching Neville closely. They were nearing the stairs to the dungeon level when she heard his sharp intake of breath; she stopped to see him rest his hand against the wall, steadying himself.   
  
"I think it's taking effect," he said, rubbing his lips together as if he couldn't feel them. He couldn't, in fact, and said so.   
  
"That's perfectly normal," Hermione responded. "How do you feel, psychologically? Feeling uninhibited? Fearless?"  
  
"Do you know, I think I am, a bit… but I don't know, Hermione, I still think this might not be such a good idea…"   
  
"Nonsense. Now come on, we want to get this taken care of before dinner… I mean, while the potion's still at the height of its effectiveness, of course," she said, tugging his arm to set him in motion down the stairs.   
  
She stopped him at the foot of the final stairway, to feel him out and see if a second swig might be needed. "So, Neville, how are you feeling now?"  
  
"I feel… buddy – bloodle – just brilliant, that's how." Neville took a deep breath, and would have forged ahead down the hall if Hermione hadn't stayed his progress.   
  
"Let's wait here just a moment. Listen, have you decided what you're going to say when you get in there?"   
  
Neville considered this for a moment, rubbing his benumbed lips together once more before answering, his adamant voice only slightly slurred, "Tell him he's a ruddy git. I would've been fine in Potions if it weren't for him standing over me like a huge, evil, black death-bat all the time. I do splendid potions all the time now. Sometimes even at work. Which means I get paid to do it. I work for the effing Ministry of Magic, and my potions are good enough for them, you know. And I could be Minister someday, and you'll still be nothing but a third-rate teacher who has to scare his students into subsmish – subbishion – doing what he wants. So nuts to you, Snape. Nuts—to—you!"   
  
Hermione felt like bursting into applause, but instead had to support Neville with both hands, as his wild gesticulation at this last point had almost thrown him off his feet. Together, they made their way to Snape's office door, and she held her breath as Neville knocked.   
  
To her surprise, the usual curt shout of 'come in' was replaced by the Potions master himself, opening the door with a look of pleased surprise.   
  
"Well, Mr. Longbottom. And Miss Granger. What a coincidence. Do you know, Mr. Longbottom, I just this moment came across a strange herbology reference in an old text, and I can't imagine anyone more likely to figure it out, and then tell me the common name of this plant. Would you mind, terribly, having a look for me?"   
  
Hermione's jaw dropped, and Neville simply looked bewildered, his hand still in the air from where he had raised it, ready to accentuate his planned invective.  
  
"I, erm…" he responded, lowering his arm slowly and looking slightly abashed.   
  
"Oh, thank you. Come in, come in… now let me see, where was it…?" Snape had already crossed to his desk, and was flipping through the yellowed pages of what appeared to be an ancient Potions text. Hermione followed Neville slowly to the desk, and the two stood somewhat awkwardly, as Snape searched for the right page. "Ah, here it is! Just here, Mr. Longbottom, if you would?"   
  
Neville stepped closer and peered down at the page, and Snape stepped back a bit, ostensibly to give him room. In truth, his motives were less pure.   
  
Hermione felt Snape's arm snake around her waist, but was still startled when his hand slipped down to give her a sharp tweak on the bum. Stifling a squeak, she glared up at him. His face was still composed, focused on the old book, and showed no sign that it knew anything of his hand's current inappropriate activities.   
  
"It's a bit smudged, and the spelling is quite atrocious," said Neville finally, with a woozy look at Snape, "but I think it's supposed to say 'fragaria vesca.'"  
  
"Ah. 'Fragaria vesca,' you say?" Snape's polite inquiry was met with a nod of Neville's head.   
  
"Yes. It's the wood strawberry."   
  
An expression of dawning comprehension transformed Snape's face until, astoundingly, he smiled and extended his right hand to Neville. After a moment, Neville took it, looking as dumbfounded as he had at the door.   
  
"Of course. Of course! Thank you, my dear boy. You have solved this mystery for me. This will be of tremendous benefit when Madam Pomfrey comes begging for a stomach tonic again. Well, I must say, Professor Sprout has always waxed lyrical about your remarkable felicity with plant life, and hereafter I shall never again say her nay." Snape gave Neville's hand a final hearty shake, and then released it, leaning over to snap the book shut with a relieved sigh. "Well, then. I have a few things to do before dinner; did you two need anything specific, or were you just paying a social call?"  
  
"No, no, we'll leave you to your work, and see you upstairs in a few minutes," replied Hermione, suddenly desperate to get Neville back out of the dungeon, before Snape decided to take matters any further into his own hands.   
  
He saw them to his office door quite graciously. Hermione still trailed after Neville, and Snape managed to sneak in another surreptitious fondle before he closed the door on them.  
  
The pair were halfway up the stairs before Neville finally spoke. "Hermione, that was… that was…"  
  
"Not quite what you expected, I know, Neville. Me either, frankly. But still—"  
  
"Not what I expected? Hell, it was bloody brilliant, is all! I can't believe that Snape actually asked me for advice. I've never known anything like this. This is amazing magic! What did you call that potion again?"  
  
"It's  _Professor_  Snape. And I called it, erm… Dutch Courage. It was invented in the Netherlands."   
  
Neville paused a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. "That sounds familiar. Was that in our Potions class fifth year?"  
  
"I don't think so, actually. Careful, there," she added, chuckling, as Neville tripped over the top step. "Now, let's just get some food into you, Mr. Herbology." 


	17. You're the Top

You're the Top  
  
You're the top! You're an Arrow collar,  
You're the top! You're a Coolidge dollar,  
You're the nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire,  
You're an O'Neill drama, you're Whistler's mama,   
You're camembert.  
  
You're a rose, you're Inferno's Dante,  
You're the nose on the great Durante.  
I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop,  
But if, baby, I'm the bottom,  
You're the top! 

  
  
Hermione had been set for extreme gratitude and mutual seduction, but was sidetracked almost immediately by Snape's library. Two walls of his small sitting room were lined, floor to ceiling, with tightly-packed shelves; still more books were stacked sideways on top of the rows, piled on the floor under the desk, and leaning in precarious towers in the corners of the room. A pair of aged, squashy, leather chairs, complete with side tables and candelabra, provided the perfect environment for reading the day or night away.   
  
Snape, of course, had plans that did not involve literature. He stood behind Hermione, caressing her arms and nibbling on the nape of her neck, as she exclaimed over one rare title after another.   
  
"I have a copy of this – and these, as well," she was muttering, fingering the spines in front of her.  
  
"It was taking an awful risk with Longbottom, don't you think?" Snape asked, slipping his arms around her waist and tugging her closer to him, as he tried to steer the subject away from books. "How could you possibly know how he would react?"   
  
Hermione answered distractedly, "When Neville drinks socially – which is seldom – he orders a half of lager and lime. Even in a wizarding pub. I have never seen him drink the entire drink in the course of an evening, yet he clearly feels tipsy from it. I was reasonably certain of a strong reaction," she went on, standing on tiptoe to reach for a particularly interesting volume. "My only real fear was that he would throw the whole thing up before he was able to tell you what he thought of you. Good Lord, is this a first edition? This must have set you back…"  
  
"Yes it is, and yes, it did. And see, it's inscribed. I hope he doesn't expect that sort of treatment in future. I nearly threw up myself, at my own Dumbledorean warmth and benevolence. In fact, I really rather hope he forgets all the specifics, and is just left with a general sense of accomplishment."  
  
"You were truly evil, you know. Can I borrow this?"  
  
"Hermione –"  
  
"Mmmm?"  
  
"So sorry to disturb you, but is there going to be a move towards sex within the next few minutes?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione whipped around, the book still in her hand, with a look of astonished amusement on her face.   
  
"We need to watch the time. I missed my rounds the other night, and Dumbledore was suspicious. It can't happen again." Snape plucked the book from her hand, placing it reverently back on the shelf.   
  
"What did you tell him?" she asked curiously, tugging the book back out and clutching it to her chest.   
  
"The truth, of course," Snape smirked. "I was sitting at my desk, doing some marking, and simply lost track of the time. " He gave her a smug look, and she snorted rather rudely in response.   
  
"You gave me high marks, I hope?" Without waiting for an answer, she stretched up on her toes to kiss him briefly, but darted out of his reach when he tried to use the opportunity to sneak the book back out of her hands.   
  
She was just about to stuff the coveted first edition into a roomy side pocket of her robes, when she heard a whispered charm, and felt the cool rush of air on her naked skin. With a little squeak, she faced Snape again, putting up little resistance as he advanced on her purposefully and pulled the book away.   
  
"Mine!" he asserted, placing the volume firmly back on the shelf before turning back to Hermione with a calculating look. "Mine," he said again more softly, as he reached for her.   
  
She giggled a little nervously as he bent to kiss her, and then leaned her back over his arm, to kiss his way down her neck and breast. He ended with his mouth poised over one chill-hardened nipple.   
  
"By the way, would you care for a bottle of firewhisky?" Hermione interjected. "There's only a very little gone, and I never touch the stuff myself…"  
  
The first touch of his tongue at the peak of her breast brought a little gasp to her lips, and she sensed his amusement as he spoke. "That would be lovely, thank you." The words were slightly muffled, as he was loath to fully release her nipple from his mouth. "If I had known about your sneaky, underhanded tendencies while you were still in school –" He began licking his way over to the other nipple, "–I probably would have held you in much higher esteem." His hands slid from her waist down to her backside. "How did you get into Gryffindor, anyway? Bribe the Sorting Hat?"  
  
"I didn't – mmmm – didn't have to. My guile is all born of – born of – aaahhh – bravery. And . . ." Her voice trailed off as Snape slipped one hand between her thighs, brushing deliciously close to her already damp folds.   
  
"And . . ." he murmured.  
  
"And . . . noble intentions."   
  
All attempts at speech ended, when his teasing stopped and he deliberately drew his hand over her opening, flattening the heel of his hand against her clit as his fingertips stroked her labia. Hermione reached down to unbutton his trousers, glad he had already removed his frock coat, as she doubted her trembling fingers could manage the task.   
  
Snape pulled back to watch as Hermione's hand slipped beneath the black wool of his trousers to free his hardening prick from its confines. She held him gently, almost thoughtfully, running the fingers of her other hand over the fine wool of the trouser placket, then up to his chest, which was still covered by black linen. Shyly, she glanced up to meet his eyes, wondering what she might find.   
  
"I notice that once again, I'm the only one naked," she pointed out with a coy smile. "That hardly seems fair. I think you actually prefer to keep your clothes on, don't you? It's very . . . guarded."   
  
Snape's jaw clenched once, and his eyes shut of their own accord. She could see the effort it took him to open them again and return her gaze.   
  
"Miss Granger, I believe we were still addressing your underhanded behavior," he said softly, an icy tone that Hermione hadn't heard in weeks creeping into his voice. "Surely you don't expect a performance like that to go . . . unpunished?"  
  
Hermione's eyes widened, and she realized her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature of the dungeon. "Unpunished?"   
  
In a trice, Snape had grabbed her around the waist, slinging her half over his shoulder and ignoring her squeal of surprised laughter as he carried her to one armchair and sat down. With a deft swing of his arm, he positioned her over his lap, face down, with her arse in the air.   
  
"Severus, what are you –"  
  
"Since I can no longer take house points, of course, my punishment will simply have to be something more – direct," Snape said, his velvety voice caressing her even as his hand on her arse did. Hermione was almost lulled by it, until he lifted his hand and spoke again. "I'd say it was worth twenty points at least. Wouldn't you agree?"   
  
 _Smack!_  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"That was one." Severus paused, lightly stroking the pinkened handprint that was already developing on the delicate white skin of Hermione's shapely bottom.   
  
To her surprise – she had never had anyone do  _that_  before – Hermione felt a rising wave of undeniable arousal, the tickling sensation over the fevered flesh stimulating nerve endings she hadn't even considered before. She knew Snape was pausing to give her time to stop things, if she so desired. But she surprised herself by remaining silent, by biting her lip and arching her back to get closer to his hand before he raised it again.   
  
"Two," he whispered, as the next blow fell, staining the other cheek with a matching handprint. He alternated at random, raising a vivid pattern of weals that finally blended together, a bright cherry red. At the twelfth stroke he stopped again, petting the stinging flesh, and letting his long fingers trail down to her wet, hot folds. Silent for the blows, Hermione cried out when his fingers entered her, then withdrew. She wriggled against him, realizing she could feel his bared erection straining against her hip.   
  
The next blow fell squarely on her aching quim, and Hermione moaned despite herself at the jolt of pain and pleasure that shot through her. She almost regretted it when the next few slaps fell only on her buttocks.   
  
At nineteen, he suddenly stopped, and slid his fingers over her sex again, teasing a path to her clit and lingering there with slow, firm circles, an unbearable contrast to the sharp blows. He slid a single finger just inside her, and chuckled cruelly when she sought purchase with her hands and knees to try to slide back, to increase the contact.   
  
"Severus, please!" she moaned, her fingers digging in to the soft leather of the chair's arm. "Oh, God –"  
  
"I like that," he replied coolly. "Begging becomes you. I shouldn't mind keeping you here in my quarters, ready to climb into my lap, naked, and beg for pleasure at my hands."   
  
"You are – such – a bastard," she gasped, with a halfhearted laugh that turned into a whimper as he pulled his hand back again.   
  
"Twenty," he hissed, and gave her a final smack that nearly sent her over the edge.   
  
Snape slid out from under her and pulled her legs after him, leaving her almost kneeling on the ground, her upper half still bent over the chair seat. He knelt behind her, drawing his fingers in a long stroke from her shoulders to her scarlet arse, and nudging one knee in between hers to spread her legs wider.   
  
His questing fingers slipped between her thighs again, giving her clit the briefest attention then wandering higher, eliciting another moan as he teased his way over her folds. Some part of his brain filed the information that she seemed to enjoy gentle stroking of the perineum.   
  
When his finger explored a bit further, however, Hermione froze and murmured, "I'mnotcomfortablewiththat" – as if, if she said it fast enough, the mood would remain unbroken.   
  
"Right," he said immediately, and filed that piece of information along with the rest as he moved his finger back to her clit. Hermione didn't know, of course, that he filed it under 'Inhibitions I Hope to Demolish, and Soon.'   
  
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Snape took a last, admiring glance at his handiwork, fading but still visible on her pale skin, then entered her roughly. He thrust firmly, then harder still, as he realized Hermione was moving her hips to meet him, reveling in his urgency. Her encouraging cries spurred him on, and he finally let himself go, pounding into her, as her orgasm swept over her. She clenched around him with a groan, and his own climax took him by surprise, tugging a yell out of him along with his essence.   
  
At last, they were both still, satiated for the moment, sides heaving like a pair of winded horses. Snape braced himself on the arms of the chair, staring down at the mass of brown ringlets tumbling over the soft leather seat. Hermione's shoulders looked slender, vulnerable, and he had to resist a sudden, compelling urge to enfold her in his arms for protection. Instead, he pulled away and stood up, his only word a muttered incantation as he cleaned them both with an understated flick of his wand.   
  
Hermione could hear the soft rustling of clothing being adjusted, and when she finally turned her head to contemplate him, he was already fully dressed in his frock coat and robes. He was also staring down at her with an unfamiliar gleam in his eye. Hermione was suddenly keenly self-conscious, wondering what she must look like on her knees, naked, beside Snape's big, leather chair.   
  
"You look like an exotic pet," he said with a smirk, as if he'd been able to read her thoughts.   
  
Which he probably had, she realized, mentally kicking herself for letting her guard down. "You have to leave right now?" she asked, dismayed.  
  
"Yes. But you don't have to. I'll only be gone an hour." He offered a hand, raising her to her feet. "Will you still be here when I get back, little pet? Eager and waiting to do my bidding?" He traced the back of her hand with his thumb, a slightly bitter tinge coloring his expression.   
  
"I'll stay for a bit," she hedged, "then decide. I'm a bit tired . . . but if it's really only for an hour, I may still be here. And if I'm here, then I'll certainly give your bidding due consideration."   
  
He searched her eyes for a moment more, relishing the hint of amused indulgence he found there, and then bent to kiss her softly. Then, in a swirl of black robes, he was out the door, leaving her alone in front of the bookcase, shivering in the dying firelight.   
  
It wasn't until a few minutes after he was gone that Hermione realized she had no idea where her clothes had gone, once Snape had spelled them off.  
  
  


***

  
  
Hermione somehow sensed that he had expected her to make her excuses and leave; perversely, she decided to stay, even if only to see what his response would be. However, her curiosity had not been sufficient to keep her awake. When Snape returned, he found her curled up on the thick sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, still naked, the duvet from his bed covering her. A book lay open next to her, her hand still marking the page at which she had finally succumbed to sleep.  
  
He hadn't expected to find her there, actually waiting for him. He'd never had a woman, or any other guest, fall asleep in his home this way. People tended to remain on their guard around Snape, and he had long fostered the qualities in his personality that led to further guardedness. As he studied Hermione, who was obviously sound asleep, he puzzled over this new development.  
  
It was a heady feeling . . . no one had ever trusted him in quite this way before. Not once they got to know him. Few people had ever trusted him at all. Dumbledore sprang to mind – which was extremely unfortunate, given the circumstances. Snape shook his head, as if he could physically clear that rogue image from his brain, and took off everything but his trousers and shirt. Moving slowly, so as not to disturb Hermione, he slipped under the blanket and spooned up behind her, sliding his arm around her waist to pull her closer.   
  
While he was still trying to decide on his next move, sleep finally overtook the Potions master. Hermione slumbered on, oblivious. But in her sleep, she smiled, and nestled closer to the source of warmth behind her. 


	18. After You, Who?

After You, Who?  
  
Though with joy I should be reeling  
That at last you came my way,  
There's no further use concealing  
That I'm feeling far from gay,  
For the rare allure about you  
Makes me all the plainer see  
How inane, how vain, how empty   
Life without you would be.  
  
After you, who could supply my sky of blue?  
After you, who could I love?  
After you, why should I take the time to try,  
For who else could qualify, after you, who?  
Hold my hand and swear you'll never cease to care,  
For without you there, what could I do?  
I could search years, but who else could change my tears  
Into laughter, after you?  
  
  
Chocolates. Dark, dark, bittersweet chocolates, about a dozen, each small square bearing a molded relief of a lion, rampant.   
  
The sight of the heart-shaped box, lid pulled aside, was the first thing to register when Hermione opened her eyes. Disoriented, she raised her head from the sheepskin and contemplated the sweets, while her mind sorted itself out.   
  
 _I was reading, I remember falling asleep, I got the duvet because I couldn't find my clothes, after –_ "Fuck!" she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and yanking the covers around her for protection.   
  
"Not right now. Bloody hell," Snape said roughly, jerking the duvet back over himself. "It's cold as the proverbial witch's tit in here, Hermione."   
  
Hermione gasped in surprise, and looked behind her to see the sleep-tousled Potions master. He peered up at her, blinking owlishly, then rubbed his face from forehead to severe chin a few times, as if trying to wipe the sleep away. She stared at him, as the previous evening's events wormed their way back into her consciousness. Then she looked back at the box of chocolates, feeling she was missing some vital piece of information.   
  
"Happy Valentine's Day," Snape muttered grumpily, sitting up and stretching.   
  
"Valentine's Day," Hermione echoed, then yawned hugely.   
  
"Yes. Are you always this charming in the mornings?"  
  
"Erm... tea? Caffeine?" she ventured weakly.   
  
"Have a chocolate," Snape suggested, "and while that sinks in, I can send for some breakfast." He patted her on the head in mock condescension, and then placed a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder blade before rising and stepping to the fireplace.   
  
While Snape Flooed an order to the kitchens, Hermione took his advice and selected a chocolate, picking one from the very middle of the box. She admired the lion emblem for just a moment before she raised the treat to her mouth and took a tentative nibble.  
  
"Mmmm . . . "   
  
"Good?" Snape asked casually, returning to the rug and folding his elegant legs beneath him as he sat beside her.   
  
"Mmmm hmmmm." Her mouth now full of chocolate, Hermione could only nod and smile, groaning her approval as the bitterness of the chocolate liquor warred gently with the sweetness of the sugar, the two flavors melding passionately over her taste buds and sliding down her throat as smoothly as warm wine.  
  
A delicious sensation of well-being began to spread throughout Hermione's body, warming and relaxing her. She leaned back against Snape's chest and snuggled there, too blissful to mind that he'd clearly bespelled the chocolate in some way.   
  
"What is in those?" she finally asked, as he pulled her closer.   
  
"Something that restores your ability to speak coherently, evidently," he replied snidely, burying his nose in her morning-wild hair and reaching around her to toy with her breasts.   
  
At the pop of noise made by the house-elf's Apparation, Snape stood smoothly, twitching the duvet back over Hermione's chest with one deft motion. He thanked the tiny creature politely, Hermione noted with surprised approval, before he placed the laden tray on the floor next to the rug.   
  
Two cups of tea, a slice of toast, a rasher of bacon, and a trip to the loo later, Hermione finally remembered to ask where her clothes were.   
  


* * *

  
  
He refused to tell her what was in the chocolates. Despite her insistence that such a substance, properly marketed, could make him millions of Galleons in the first year, he simply shook his head, looking enigmatic and smug. He did confess – or "accidentally" let slip – that the chocolate itself was of his own manufacture (thereby increasing Hermione's esteem for him by several magnitudes); he also promised to teach her how to make it for herself, which struck him as quite practical, and struck her as less romantic than having Snape make it for her.   
  
"But I didn't get you anything," Hermione said, sneaking another piece of chocolate to her mouth after feeding one to Snape. They were back in his room that night after dinner, sprawled out on the sheepskin rug once more, and lazily consuming too many chocolates while watching the fire.   
  
"I plan to take it out in trade," he said blithely, his face quite deadpan until her answering giggle provoked a mock frown. He leaned in, tightening his arm around her, and speaking close to her ear. "Do you doubt my ability to do so, if that's what I desire?"   
  
Hermione felt a tingle from her waist to her knees, as his low-pitched voice curled through her like smoke. From where she sat, leaning back against him as he lay on his side, she turned and draped herself over him. He caught her mouth with his, and tugged her gently along with him as he rolled onto his back.   
  
"Severus?"  
  
"Mmmm?"  
  
"I just realized, I have yet to spend any time in your actual bed."  
  
"Mmmm."  
  


* * *

  
  
Hermione wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Something monastic, perhaps, stark and penitential. Or Slytherin green with a dungeon theme, all dark wood and stone walls. But the stone walls had been hidden away by plaster, here, and painted a soft tan. A charmed window, revealing only night when Hermione first saw the room, would probably lend the illusion of airy lightness by day. The bed, a simple mahogany four-poster, was dressed simply, with time-softened ivory linens and a thick, cream-colored, wool blanket. The ivory duvet Hermione had found the previous night was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The simplicity was the perfect way to showcase the series of botanical sketches and lithographs that lined the walls above the bookshelves, and the stormy landscape (she would swear it was a Constable) over the mantel. The bookshelves were crowded, naturally, and Hermione fully intended to peruse the contents – later.   
  
She was, of course, otherwise occupied upon entering the bedroom. She was also, she found to her dismay, quite naked once again.   
  
"Stop that!" she cried, whirling around just as Snape stooped to pick her up and lift her onto the bed. His hands caressed her bare flesh unabashedly, and his mouth was already busy teasing the sensitive skin on the underside of one breast. "This is hardly fair. I'm not sure I care for this pattern of things at all." The little whimper that escaped her mouth as Snape whisked his tongue over her nipple gave the lie to Hermione's words.  
  
"You seem to enjoy that pattern well enough. Suppose you be a good little pet just now, and perhaps we can discuss doing things differently next time."   
  
He didn't see her eyebrow lift sharply at this suggestion, and when he raised his head at her silence, he only saw her biting her lip thoughtfully. She hid the guarded look in her eyes artfully, sliding into a sweet smile, and managing to look demure despite the fact that she was sprawled wantonly on his bed.  
  
"Yes, sir," she said innocently.   
  
She batted her eyes, and Snape chuckled a tad uneasily, but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. This was short-sighted of him, to say the least.  
  
As soon as he neared her again, Hermione snatched his wand from his pocket. In a twinkling, she had him bound to the bedposts with a long, heavy rope Transfigured neatly from his frock coat. Deliberately adding a saucy little flourish, she waved the wand again and tied his feet up with his own Transfigured trousers. Left in shirtsleeves and pants, Snape could only gape at her, utterly gobsmacked.   
  
Hermione grinned at her handiwork; speechless, Snape gasped like a fish out of water for several moments. She had never before seen him so completely at a loss for words, and she enjoyed every second of the experience as she slid off the bed and placed his wand carefully atop a bookcase, safely out of his reach.   
  
"Now," she said finally, "suppose you be a good little pet for now, and perhaps I'll loosen your tethers later in the evening. At which time we can discuss what will happen the next time around."   
  
"Hermione, untie me  _this instant_ ," Snape growled, his deep lack of amusement evident in his glaring eyes.  
  
"No," she replied, heading for the wardrobe where he'd bespelled her clothes the night before. True to form, he had done so again. She plucked her outer robe from the tidy stack, and pulled it on as she spoke. "I'm not untying you any time soon, obviously. That wouldn't be any fun for either of us." Having retrieved her own wand, she approached the bed again.  
  
"So you're saying this is your idea of  _fun_?" His voice was beginning to rise, with a faint note of panic creeping in.  
  
"I'm saying I think you need to relax and get comfortable, because you won't be going anywhere any time soon." Hermione crawled back up onto the wide bed and nimbly straddled her quarry, who clenched his teeth and tried to pull away. The motion only served to raise his hips into her pelvis, where the thin cotton of his boxers did little to mask the heat and damp already building between her legs. With a groan of frustration, he slumped back down, wrapping his hands around the black woolen ropes and tugging ineffectually.   
  
Hermione laughed softly in delight at his predicament, unable to feel any guilt for her lack of charity. She slipped the buttons of his white linen shirt loose, spreading the fabric to reveal his slim chest. It was almost as white as the surrounding fabric, but punctuated by that random scattering of black hairs. She ran eager fingers through them, exploring their springy quality, and then perused the skin beneath.   
  
"I was expecting more scars," she murmured, tracing his ribs with her fingertips just firmly enough to avoid tickling. Snape merely sighed, in a put-upon way. "Severus, I expect my pet to be civil. Don't make me charm your shoe into a paddle."  
  
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed, but Hermione saw his eyes widen in anxiety. Even the best of spies could give things away, she knew, and even the best of spies could get a bit rusty after a few years off the game. Seeing the chink in his armor, Hermione began to pick at it, a little at a time.   
  
"I was expecting more scars," she said firmly, with an expectant tone, and flexed her hips gently into his crotch. His hardening length answered before he did, twitching at the pressure.  
  
Finally, begrudgingly, he replied, "Not all curses leave visible scarring. Some of the worst leave none at all."   
  
"But this one?" She traced the faint, silvery scar that ran across his stomach from just below one nipple to the lowest rib on the opposite side.  
  
"A Slicing Hex." His taciturn answer didn't please her, and she thrust against him again, leaning forward to flick his nipples with her thumbs. "I got it in a Dueling Society competition my sixth year. Bellatrix Black got a month of detention for it."  
  
"I don't think she learned her lesson very well," commented Hermione thoughtfully. She had unconsciously begun to move her hips in a slow rhythm, and had to force herself to stop before she ended up using Snape in a way she hadn't quite intended.   
  
Leaning forward again, Hermione began working her way down Snape's lean frame, nibbling and sucking as she went. Pulling her wand out, she neatly dispatched Snape's shirt to the wardrobe, leaving his pants in place. Despite his best efforts, Snape's erection was tenting the cotton, and Hermione teased him for long moments by breathing through the fabric, until he choked out a small sound of pleasure. She smiled triumphantly as she spelled away his boxers, leaving him naked on the bed.   
  
Nearly naked, she realized. He was still wearing a pair of heavy, black, woolen socks.   
  
"We'll leave those," she said with a smirk worthy of her companion. "We wouldn’t want you to catch cold, after all." And with that, she dipped her head to suckle the tip of his penis, which bobbed gently with each movement of the bed.   
  
Pulling back suddenly, she encircled his shaft lightly with her thumb and forefinger, holding it at the base. "Why don't you like to be naked?" she asked abruptly, squeezing him once, firmly.   
  
"Hermione, this is –"  
  
"No arguing! Answer the question, or I'll set to work on that paddle."   
  
Sighing again, Snape thought a moment, then finally answered. "I just don't like feeling exposed. It was bad enough as a teenager, with Potter and Black, all those bloody pranks. I confess I was almost gleeful to learn about Pettigrew betraying them. The  _justice_  of that…" His face darkened, his jaw clenching reflexively as he considered what he'd just said. But when Hermione remained silent, waiting for him to finish, he pressed on. "Yes, I'm well aware that my views were and are childish and biased, and that there was injustice done to them, far beyond my petty memories of embarrassment.   
  
"Then, too, I was a double agent for years. Most of my adult life. I never felt safe during that time, you know, never for a day. Never a minute. Even when we thought Voldemort was gone the first time, Dumbledore and I had a tacit agreement that I would remain in reserve, remain ambiguous. Always dark, unlikable, believable as a Death Eater. Ready to be sent back, if the need ever arose. Which it did," Snape spat out, bitterly. "It did. And petty though I am, I went to the Dark Lord for Dumbledore. So I could be noble, too. We both knew what it meant, he thought. But he had no idea, really. None. Because he didn't have to be there, himself." Although he was looking straight at her, Snape didn't seem to see Hermione anymore. "Exposure… it would have been the death of me. I really don't know why it wasn't."  
  
"So what about now?" asked Hermione softly, loathe to interrupt him. "Now that You-Know-Who is really gone?"  
  
"It isn't easy to change the habits of a lifetime, Hermione," said Snape. "I don't even know if I am capable of changing them."  
  
As she watched him, his face became guarded again, as if he had only just realized how much he'd told her. Sighing, Hermione once again considered the task at hand, applying a few subtle strokes.  
  
"I wasn't talking about your habit of avoiding nudity, actually," she remarked. "More a sort of existential 'what about now.' But never mind that." She straddled him once more, hitching her robe up to clear her thighs of the silky fabric. Snape caught a glimpse of brown curls and the smallest hint of the pink temptation beyond, before she seated herself firmly against him. "All right, then. Be a good pet, and tell me… what was in the chocolates?"  
  
Snape looked at her calculatingly, before answering with a firm "No."   
  
"Wrong answer." She took a single hair of his chest delicately between her thumb and index finger, and yanked it straight out, earning a yelp from the man beneath her.  
  
"Fuck!" he cried, squirming as he instinctively tried to move away.  
  
"Not just yet," she replied wickedly, sizing up another hair. "Tell me."   
  
Snape raised his head and looked down at her hand, poised with another hair that grew far too close to his nipple for comfort. "Just a derivative of the Draught of Peace," he burbled, "now please let go of that."  
  
"Please let go of that… what?" Hermione kept the hair pinched between her fingers.   
  
"Please let go of that, what? Oh. Well… please let go of that, erm… Mistress?"  
  
Pleased, Hermione released the hair, pressing down with her hips again to find, surprisingly, that Snape was still hard. A small movement on her part accomplished their joining, hidden beneath the folds of the robe she still wore.   
  
"Hermione,  _please_  untie me," Snape begged, and she gave him a quizzical look as she began to ride him slowly.   
  
"Why the Draught of Peace?"  
  
"I wanted you to feel good. With me," he admitted, no longer trying to argue, seeking her rhythm with his limited range of motion.  
  
Hermione's eyes closed, her effort to hold herself back beginning to falter as their movements together quickened. "We'll have to talk about that… and what would you do if I untied, say, one hand?  _Pet._ "  
  
"Help you feel good, with me," he said, and moaned happily as she flicked her wand and released his right hand. True to his word, he brought it to where they were joined, and began stroking the sensitive skin around her opening. Teasing his way toward her clit, he finally gave in and began to rub in earnest, hearing the reward of her hoarse cries, even as he felt his control slip away. She tightened around him, and he came just as she did, hard and fast, breathless and astonished.  
  
"I want to like it," he whispered raggedly when he could speak again, tugging her down to rest on top of him. "I want to like being exposed for you, only for you. You can be my Mistress if you want to be."   
  
"I don't want to be," she murmured into his chest, still shuddering with the aftershocks of her climax. "You don't have to be…"  
  
"I want to. For—"  
  
"Shhh." She burrowed closer into his chest, raising her wand hand once to release the rest of his bonds, then releasing the slim piece of wood and tangling her fingers in the dark hair that drifted down across his shoulder. "Happy Valentine's Day."   
  


* * *

  
  
Snape awoke with a start, unaccustomed to the presence of another person in his bed. At some point in the night, they had bestirred themselves enough to pull the duvet up; now, they lay curled into one another, facing, as if they had fallen asleep talking in their cocoon of warmth. For a moment, Snape wallowed in the unfamiliar, hedonistic delight of warmth and contact. And then began the doubts.  
  
 _What the hell have I done? What the hell was she doing?_  he thought, with a feeling of panic that dwarfed his anxiety of the night before.  _She didn’t need to hear all that. Nobody needed to hear that. I admitted I was glad about Pettigrew. Merlin's beard, nobody needed to know that…_ Snape's stomach began to churn as he stared down at the sleeping witch in his arms.   
  
 _I can't believe she got the drop on me again. I confessed to essentially drugging her… I could lose my job. I could get brought up before the Wizengamot. Would she do that? No. No, surely not._  The knowledge that she probably wouldn't tell anyone seemed small comfort, compared to his chagrin at having done it in the first place.  _What was I thinking? And what did I say, there at the end? Merciful heavens, I think I offered myself in servitude. She did decline, didn't she?_    
  
When Hermione opened her eyes, she was met with a look of total consternation on Snape's face. He looked at her with something approaching horror as she yawned widely and stretched, smiling calmly. At the end of the stretch, she reached one hand out to stroke his cheek fondly.  
  
"Oh, Severus, have you been lying here thinking too much? It's no good for you, you know." Yawning again, she rose gracefully from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Snape dumbstruck once again. A moment later, she peered around the doorjamb at him, blinking sleepily. "Tea? Caffeine? Another chocolate?" Then she vanished again, closing the door behind her. 


	19. Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye

Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye  
  
Ev'ry time we say goodbye, I die a little,  
Ev'ry time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little,  
Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know,  
Think so little of me, they allow you to go.  
When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it,  
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,  
There's no love song finer,   
But how strange the change from major to minor,  
Ev'ry time we say goodbye.  
  
  
"I still can't picture it. Sorry."  
  
"Neither can I, Harry. That's sort of the problem, isn't it?" Hermione took a long pull on her tankard of butterbeer, and sunk a little lower in her chair, depressed at the general state of affairs.   
  
"I mean – and it is almost physically painful to say this aloud – I suppose the big question is, do you think you're in . . . no. No, I can't say it, I'm sorry. In my mind, it's just, 'it's Snape, how could she, it's Snape, how could she,' over and over. But you get where I'm trying to go with the 'big question' business."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Open-minded, I get where you're  _trying_  to go." Hermione shot Harry a withering look he remembered none too fondly from their preteen years.   
  
"At least he's having a nice effect on your personality. Ah, that was sarcasm, by the way. As you seem to be losing your sense of humor, I thought I should let you know directly."  
  
"As you seem to be a huge prat today, let me just tell you that directly as well, then. I'm really in trouble here, Harry. I don't know what to do, and I need help from a friend, not smart remarks. If I'd wanted that I'd have gone to Ron."  
  
Harry snorted at that notion, and stopped to ponder Hermione's dilemma for a moment before speaking again. "Well, for one thing, do you? The big question?"  
  
"I don't know. Next question."  
  
"That's helpful. Erm . . . okay. Have you ever felt this way about anyone before?"  
  
"I should say not," said Hermione with a rueful chuckle. "Of course, I don't have a vast range of experience in this area, so that may not be determinative of anything."  
  
"Well, what about how he makes you feel? Not – you know, not like  _that_. Just as a person. Happy? Sad? What?"  
  
"Oh, God . . . well, a thousand things. Most of them good, I suppose. Some just novel, maybe. He's very witty, of course, even if you've never seen that side of him. So there's a certain amount of laughter. Not all of it is even mean-spirited, believe it or not. And, it's strange, but even though he's terribly smart, and we have those sorts of intellectual talks that you and Ron would never have with me, at the same time I feel all girly and giggly. So I suppose that makes me feel sort of smarter, yet more feminine. Oh, and his library's amazing. I could fall in love with that alone." Hermione glanced sidelong at Harry, timing her next remark to coincide with his swig of butterbeer. "And of course, he's a demon in the sack."   
  
Harry sprayed butterbeer over most of the table. Hermione, extremely gratified, whisked the mess away with a quick cleaning charm, nearly falling off her chair with laughter as she did so.   
  
"That was completely un-called for, Hermione," sputtered Harry, glaring at Hermione as her peals of laughter subsided into occasional snickers.   
  
"Next question," she replied, when she had caught her breath again.   
  
"Fine. All right, then. And no hedging on this one." Harry leaned in close, and spoke in a low, solemn tone, "Can you see yourself with him, twenty years from now?"  
  
Hermione's jaw dropped. "That's exactly what my mother always says to ask myself!"  
  
"Well, perhaps there's something in it, then. Mum Granger and Harry know best. So? No hedging, remember?"  
  
"I didn't actually agree to that, but . . . all right. Okay. This isn't hedging, but my answer just isn't a yes or no . . ."  
  
"Explain away. It's an important question, take all the time you feel you need. As long as you know that ultimately, it  _is_ either one or the other."  
  
"I can't see myself with Snape in twenty years," began Hermione, who immediately had to stop as Harry gave a loud 'A-ha!' and tried to do a victory dance in his chair. " _But_  – this is the explanation, which you said I could have – it's nothing to do with him. And I'm just now realizing this, I think. It's me. I can't picture  _me_  in twenty years. At all. I mean, I just have no idea. Harry . . .  _I do not have a long-range plan._ " Hermione was fully expecting a glib reply, though she was in deadly earnest; but somehow, when she heard Harry's answer, she found she wasn't completely surprised.   
  
"I know  _exactly_  what you mean." His expression was one of slightly anxious amazement.   
  
"You  _do_?" Hermione didn't doubt his veracity, but was a bit stunned to find she was not the only one experiencing the problem. "How long has it been?"  
  
"Since leaving school, really. Or even earlier; I didn't realize it for a long time, though, didn't realize what was wrong. Just . . . we'd defeated Voldemort after nearly seven years of trying, done our N.E.W.T.s, left school. So much effort, and then, in the space of a few months, it was all over. Everything we'd been working for." Hermione nodded, paying rapt attention as Harry voiced everything she was feeling. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I ever really considered what would happen if I lived through it. Not that I consciously thought he would kill me, but it just took up all my time, all my  _vision_  of who I was, or who I might become. I sort of . . . defined myself by fighting him. And that's what I grew up with."  
  
"I think that's why I had such trouble deciding on courses after O.W.L.s. I had so many choices, but none of it really felt  _real_  to me. As if any choice would do, one was no better than another, because it seemed so far-fetched to think beyond defeating Voldemort anyway. It was just an academic exercise – no pun intended."  
  
"I picked subjects to prepare for being an Auror because it sounded cool. And I guess it  _would_ be cool, if I were – oh, this sounds so conceited – if I were anyone else. But it wasn't really my life's ambition. I don't regret not doing it. I did like teaching, I think, but . . ."  
  
"Something's just missing," she finished for him. "You must have it worse than any of us, you poor thing. Sort of hard on you, to expect you to have a life's ambition  _in addition_  to being the Savior of the Wizarding World," Hermione said wryly.   
  
"Well . . . even heroes need to eat. For the rest of their no-longer-meaningful lives. So I really should do something useful, or at least something lucrative."  
  
"At least you have a place to live."  
  
"Speaking of which, thanks for letting Ginny borrow your flat."   
  
"No problem. I would ask you how that's all going, but I selfishly still want to discuss my own problem."  
  
Harry wiped his hand over the lower half of his face, sighing heavily. "You don't want to know, anyway."  
  
"That's a plea for help if ever I've heard one. All right, I'll bite. What don't I want to know?" Hermione leaned forward, giving him her full attention.  
  
"It's going like hell, actually. Absolute bloody hell. After what happened, Molly's mobilized the entire clan to keep Ginny busy, and out of my corrupting clutches. There are just so many of them, she's never home alone. And she's so guilty about being caught  _in flagrante_ , she doesn't feel she can deny them. Working for Fred and George, it's not as though she can sneak off during the day unnoticed. So we're no further along than we were." He took off his glasses, this time, and rubbed the bridge of his nose before continuing. "Not to mention that, to hear Dean and some of the others tell it – which they delight in doing, whenever they see me – I'm evidently the only chap of our acquaintance who  _hasn't_  managed to –"  
  
"Stop! Don't, Harry. Don't say that, whatever you were just about to say." At his questioning look, she added, "You'll thank me later. Profusely. Just trust me on this one, okay? And listen, here's what you need to do. When those arseholes start in with that rubbish, what you should do is just look at them with a puzzled expression, then slowly building comprehension, then a look of pity, verging on condescension."  
  
"What?"  
  
"As if you'd just realized something about them that causes you to feel superior, but in a vaguely compassionate way.  _Trust me,_  Harry." Hermione was leaning forward again, looking about furtively as she went on. "And you  _must_ talk to Ginny about why."  
  
"I'm horribly confused. Am I missing something?" Glasses back on, Harry peered at her, but seemed to see no more clearly than a moment before.  
  
"Yes. But I can't tell you what it is. Because I promised. Or else I would tell you that –" Hermione looked around the room again, checking to see that nobody was listening. "I would tell you that, while you may be missing something, Ginny is missing nothing. Nothing at all." Harry still looked blank, and Hermione decided to give it up, and make amends to Ginny later, somehow. "Harry – missing  _nothing_. She's still in . . . _mint_  . . . condition."   
  
"What? What d'you mean,  _mint_  – " The light of comprehension dawned, and Harry's jaw dropped nearly to his chest. He slumped back in his chair and sat, gaping, while Hermione heaved a sigh of mixed relief and regret. She hated to think what sort of hex Ginny would level at her when next they met.   
  
"When you've thought about that little item long enough, can we get back to  _my_  problem, please?" said Hermione after a short interval.   
  
"Yeee . . . wait. Give me another minute, all right?" At her nod, Harry gestured to Rosmerta and ordered a double firewhisky. Once the drink had arrived, and he'd knocked back a solid swig,   
Harry returned his attention to Hermione.   
  
"Careful with that stuff," she warned. "It can lower your inhibitions, you know. Now, where were we?"  
  
"I have no idea. My brain has pretty much been filled up by more astonishing information in the meantime."  
  
"Our existential woes, and what I should do about Snape," she reminded him impatiently.  
  
Harry eyed Hermione over the rim of his glass, and she could see a twinkle in his eye. "Don't you mean  _Professor_  Snape, Hermione?" Foolishly, he took the drink, despite the answering gleam in Hermione's eye.  
  
"Only when we're acting out his naughty-schoolgirl detention fetish." Again, the cleaning charms were necessary, and Harry also had a fair amount of unpleasantness to deal with, involving firewhisky up his nose.   
  
However, eventually things settled back down, and Hermione reassured him that she was only joking – true in the letter, if not precisely in the spirit, she told herself.   
  
"But the thing is," she admitted to Harry, "I think I could see myself with him twenty years down the road, if there weren't so many unknown variables in the equation."  
  
"It isn't Arithmancy, love," said Harry, gently.  
  
"Harry . . . who  _are_  we now, anyway? I mean, really. Is this all there is? It just seems like such an anticlimax. And in a few weeks, I'll be going back to the Ministry, and he hasn't even hinted that he'd like me to change my plans, or make future plans, or–" To her chagrin, Hermione found herself choking back tears, which Harry rushed to mop up with a handkerchief.   
  
"I know, Hermione. I really do. And I have a theory, if you want to hear it? It isn't Arithmancy, of course."  
  
"You mean you haven't isolated and identified potential parameters for all your variables?" She grinned through her tears, and Harry smiled back.   
  
"Listen. We were really short-changed on some major emotional development, during school. During the time in our lives when we were supposed to be having tons of earth-shattering emotions about things that turn out not to be very important in the grand scheme of things, like dating, and marks, and those sorts of things – all that time, we were having to stay calm in the face of things that truly were earth-shattering. A war. We were in the middle of a war, and we knew that the outcome depended on us."  
  
"On you, at least –" Hermione began.  
  
"No. On all of us. On you, and me, and Ron, and everyone in the Order. All the people we cared about. That's important, Hermione, because it's why I think we're all having trouble now, not just me."  
  
"All of us? Who, besides us?"  
  
"Are you really that dense? Take a look at Ron, for one. Sweet Merlin, that boy is doing his best to sow all the wild oats he never got a chance to sow during school. It's tearing his mother apart, alienating him from his friends, and he knows that. He's told me as much. He told me after the Ball that he had no idea why he acted like such a huge arse. But still, he can't seem to stop himself. And it's completely opposite to everything he said he'd wanted to do. A few weeks before the N.E.W.T.s, you know, he told me he was planning to ask you to marry him that summer. Once he was through Auror training. Then he got on with the Cannons, and . . . "   
  
"Oh, my. Poor Ronald." Hermione was genuinely concerned, for the first time in over a year, about the second of her two best friends. "I suppose I just assumed he was living his dream."  
  
"It's like he's living the dream he thinks he's supposed to have. I don't think he knows what his dream is, anymore. And Molly and Arthur, you know, they've never really gotten over Percy. Or Sirius and Remus, for that matter. Now here they are, only in their forties, and it's like they're – oh, what's that poem? You know, the Muggle one? Somebody Thomas?"  
  
"Dylan Thomas," Hermione said softly. "And you're right. It's like they're 'going gentle into that good night.'"  
  
"That's the one. Old before their time, and just tired of it all."  
  
"I feel like I've been so self-absorbed. I just hadn't noticed . . ."  
  
"You've been busy trying to re-create your life. Like we all have. And my theory is, that what we all need to do, to make it feel right again, is to – well, first, to get used to the idea of things being normal, for a change. That normal even exists."  
  
"That's true. It's like we've got this collective image of the Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads, even though, intellectually, we know it's gone now."  
  
Harry blinked at her. "I have no idea what that you just said. But I think you get my idea. Anyway, once we've done that, and gone through all that grief and loss thingy, with the denial and everything, and had a chance to experience getting into a rut, for once . . .  _then_  we have to look at our lives and figure out what gives us our purpose  _now_. What we want. Where we see ourselves in twenty years. We're going to have to actually sit down, each of us, and figure that out all over again." He sat back, waiting for her response.   
  
"I can't believe how much thought you've put into this, Harry. You sound almost like . . . me."  
  
"Thank you. I think. I've had a lot of time to think about it, since I left the teaching job."  
  
Hermione looked thoughtful for several moments, then frowned slightly. "It sounds like a lot of work," she said, her frown creasing upward into the faintest of smiles.   
  
Harry leaned forward, until he was almost whispering in her ear, and whispered, "No worries. I'll buy you a talking agenda."  
  
As Hermione's peal of laughter rang out, and she threw her arms around Harry's shoulders, her eyes met those of the latest person to walk into the pub.   
  
Snape looked at her, a flush rising to color his pallid cheeks, and a sneer rising on his upper lip. After a moment that seemed to linger for an hour, he turned silently and swept out of the door, his robes snapping behind him.  
  
Hermione drew back, aghast. Her expression startled Harry, who looked instinctively behind him but saw nothing that would engender the horror he saw on his friend's face.   
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"Severus. Oh, Harry, he just walked in and saw us hugging. He's bound to assume the worst, I just know it. Oh, damn, damn,  _damn!_ "  
  
"Too right," he agreed, considering how the Potions master would probably react to finding his young, gorgeous lover in the arms of a younger, non-greasy man. "You have to be casual about it, though. Don't you go running and apologizing, or trying to explain – you haven't done anything wrong."  
  
"Oh, I know," Hermione replied, with a dismissive wave. "I can only breeze in, ask him why he didn't come over to the table when he saw us, then laugh and give him a gentle chiding for jealousy while I make it clear you hold no charms for me. Besides, as I think about it a bit longer, I doubt he'll think we're actually doing anything. I think it's the possibility that we can come and have a drink and a laugh, just as friends, that will eat at him. He'd see the fact that I was out with someone, having fun, as a betrayal in itself."   
  
Harry was impressed. "What, do they make girls take classes on this stuff, do you get an instruction manual or something? What?"   
  
She waved his comments off again. "You know, I feel better, Harry. Really. This has helped. Thank you."   
  
"I didn't do much. You helped  _me_  . . . although I don't know exactly how I'm going to approach, erm,  _things_ , now that I'm armed with the truth." Even the thought sent Harry chasing the last gulp of liquor in his glass.   
  
"It helps to know I'm not the only one to feel this way. It will take some time, that's all. But it's normal. More importantly, I know that, while I may not want to lose Severus, I don't think I can really decide until I find  _myself_  again." They both winced, then shrugged, at the cliché. It was trite, but nonetheless appropriate. "And, like you, I'm not sure where that leaves me, as far as how to proceed. But at least I'll have a guiding theory  _with which_ to proceed."  
  
"And at least now I have all the facts," replied Harry. "The truth-is-stranger-than-fiction,  _that_ -certainly-explains-a-lot, facts. So . . . your health, and good luck on all your endeavors."   
  
Harry raised his glass, then realized it was empty. So was Hermione's pint of butterbeer. They clinked the vessels anyway, and after leaving a hefty tip for Rosmerta, ventured out into the night, in much better cheer than they had expected.


	20. Just One of Those Things

Just One of Those Things  
  
It was just one of those things  
Just one of those crazy flings  
One of those bells that now and then rings  
Just one of those things  
  
It was just one of those nights  
Just one of those fabulous flights  
A trip to the moon on gossamer wings  
Just one of those things  
  
If we'd thought a bit, of the end of it  
When we started painting the town  
We'd have been aware that our love affair  
Was too hot, not to cool down  
  
So good-bye, dear, and amen  
Here's hoping we meet now and then  
It was great fun  
But it was just one of those things  
  
  
She should have known that the end of the chocolate would portend bad things.   
  
She had just popped the last, soothing square in her mouth, when the knock on the door came. It was not Snape, as she'd half-expected, but a frantic Neville.   
  
"Hermione, I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been?" He entered the room and instantly began pacing to and fro.   
  
Swallowing the chocolate, relishing the blissful calm that stole over her – under the influence of which she intended to locate and talk to Snape – Hermione gestured to a chair. "I was in Hogsmeade, having a chat with Harry. Whatever is the matter, Neville? Sit down, please. You're making me feel agitated as well, with all that pacing about."  
  
"Hermione," he said, ignoring the chair, "we got an owl from the   
Ministry about an hour ago. We've been recalled."   
  
"What?"  
  
"We've been recalled," Neville repeated. "Our project's been cancelled."   
  
"What?"  
  
"My God, for the brightest witch of your age, you don't have much to say, do you? Cancelled, Hermione!  _Cancelled!_  We are to report to the office tomorrow morning, first thing, for reassignment."  
  
"Neville, slow down. This doesn't make any sense." Hermione was beginning to wish she'd held off on the chocolate. "Look, let me see the letter. There's obviously been some sort of mistake."   
  
Neville produced the wrinkled missive from the pocket where he'd stuffed it, flattened it back out with a small look of chagrin, and presented it to Hermione. She read it over quickly – it was only a few lines, just a terse instruction to consider their research into juvenile muggle-born wandless magic cancelled, and to report to work the next day – then turned the paper over, looking in vain for any further clues. The note was on official ministry letterhead, and signed by their department head.   
  
"It certainly looks like the real thing, all right," she ventured. "It still doesn't make much sense. I mean, we're almost finished, anyway. We were due to leave in another two weeks."  
  
"They're going to make me redundant. I know it," stated Neville flatly, his face gone stony.   
  
"Don't be silly, Neville. We're not going to be let go, we've done good work so far. It's not as though this project has lost them money, or offended anyone, or anything."   
  
"I didn't say  _you_ ," he replied. "I said  _me_. I knew it was too good to last."   
  
"That's the old Neville talking. They probably just need extra hands on a more serious project. Something for one of the more senior wizards in the department. It happens, sometimes." In the back of her mind, Hermione began to feel a tiny spark of emotion. She couldn't quite place whether it was a gleam of hope, or panic, or something else entirely, but she suddenly wanted badly to examine it in the absence of Neville Longbottom.   
  
"Hermione," he said, distracting her, "I've been thinking of quitting, anyway. Maybe it's a sign."   
  
"Neville, you don't even know what the reassignment is. I've never heard you mention quitting before, either. Aren't you being a little hasty?"  
  
"No, I can feel it. It's a sign." A fanatic glow lit Neville's eye, and he began to smile as he spoke. "I can leave now, and not be leaving anybody in the middle of anything. If I continue in the ministry, who knows when that would happen again? I still have no ties, now, nobody reporting to me, none of my own projects underway. It's my last chance, Hermione!"   
  
Hermione was baffled. She had often thought of leaving the ministry, herself, had in fact thought of it almost every day since she started working there; but she had never heard Neville mention the slightest possibility he was anything less than thrilled to be employed there.   
  
"Your last chance to do what?" she asked.   
  
The glow in his eyes shone brighter still, and he spoke with a hushed, but intense, reverence. "My last chance… to have my own plant shop and nursery centre."  
  


* * *

  
  
The chocolate had, unfortunately, long since worn off by the time Hermione freed herself from Neville and began the long trek down to the dungeons.   
  
Snape's door was closed (of course), locked and heavily warded (of course), and giving off its usual forbidding aura. Ignoring this, Hermione pounded on it with her fist several times, wincing at the pain, but relishing the satisfyingly loud bangs she was able to produce; evidently, the wood was not as heavy and solid as it appeared. The sound was still echoing in the corridors when Snape flung the door wide.  
  
She had obviously interrupted him while he was grading; he still held his red-tipped quill in one hand, and his robes were off, his coat unbuttoned. His expression was distracted and annoyed, and did not change to one of pleasure when he saw her, but deepened into his old sneer.   
  
"Miss Granger," he said darkly, keeping one hand on the door, and pointedly not inviting her in.   
  
"Severus," she said, as breezily as she could, "I saw you in the Three Broomsticks, then you left in such a hurry. Why didn't you come join us?" She ducked neatly under the arm he held with one hand outstretched to brace the door, strode across the room, and settled into one of the leather chairs.   
  
Snape turned, looking at her incredulously, as she nonchalantly slipped off her shoes and stretched her feet out to the warmth of the fire.   
  
"Do you know, I finally let the cat out of the bag about Ginny, and Harry just didn't seem sure how to react to  _that_  bit of information. It was rather amusing, actually." Hermione had relayed the ongoing saga of Ginny and Harry's relationship to Snape, who had heretofore found it alternately disgusting and amusing. She hoped he would be too tempted by the morsel of salacious gossip to waste any further time in clearly pointless jealousy or accusations.   
  
"I have no wish to hear the lurid details of  _Potter's_  sex life," Snape began reflexively, then stopped.   
  
Hermione held her breath, waiting to see whether her ploy had worked, and Severus would follow along with her casual, matter-of-fact approach.  
  
Finally, to her great relief, he continued. "He'll try all the harder to win her, of course. Her innocence will lure him to her, more surely than any seduction could." He sat in the second chair, glancing sidelong at Hermione, who pretended not to notice.   
  
"She's going to kill me, when she finds out."  
  
"Naturally. She trusted you to keep her secret, and you betrayed her."  
  
"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds just horrible, Severus."  
  
"It's only the truth," he shrugged. "Why bother to sugar-coat it?"  
  
"Speaking of sugar, do you have any more chocolate about the place? I just had my very last one, and I'd dearly love another."   
  
"No, that was the only batch. Made especially for you."   
  
"I'm touched. But disappointed. I could have really used another few of those."   
  
"Then it is probably just as well I have no more to give you. Of course, given the company in which you must currently spend your day, I cannot blame you for desiring… release. From… tension." His voice, suddenly husky and suggestive of much more than chocolate or work-related tension, sent a shiver up and down Hermione's spine.   
  
For a few moments, she debated with herself. If she told Snape about leaving right away – certainly the honorable and forthright thing to do – he was bound to be upset, which seemed unlikely to lead in an amorous direction. If she waited, and let nature take its course, then told him afterward… they would both be happier in the short term, but he might be all the more distressed to find she had kept this important information from him in order to use him for physical gratification.   
  
 _Stupid omniscient Hat, anyway,_  Hermione silently cursed, and proceeded to do the proper Gryffindor thing. "Severus, I'm afraid I have some bad news."  
  


* * *

  
  
Ten minutes later, when the dust had settled, after Snape had railed and cursed, read the letter, cursed some more, and finally dashed a rather nice teacup to smithereens against the hearth, Hermione sat back and contemplated him with an expression of mildly pleased surprise.  
  
"You didn't take that nearly as badly as I thought you would," she commented, vanishing the shards of porcelain with an idle wave of her wand.   
  
Snape glared at her, then balled the Ministry letter into a wad and tossed it contemptuously into her lap. "I'm sure you have packing to do, Miss Granger," he said coldly, drawing himself up to his full height and almost visibly drawing a veil of prickly detachment about his lanky frame. "And I have essays to mark. So perhaps it would be best if you returned to your room, and we both got on with the things we need to do." Striding to the door, he opened it and stood there stiffly, waiting for her to leave.   
  
"You're being very silly, you know," she said, remaining in her seat. She stared at him, but he refused to make eye contact.  
  
"I haven't got all night, Miss Granger. The work won't mark itself."  
  
"Severus –"  
  
"Have a pleasant evening." The words fairly dripped with sarcasm, and Hermione snorted in response.   
  
"I never said I wanted to break things off, after all. You're on the Floo network, Severus. And we can always Apparate. It's not as though we'll never see one another again. Unless that's –" Hermione's eyes suddenly narrowed. " _Is_  that what you were expecting?"  
  
Snape still kept his eyes from hers, as he swept back into the room, walking past her to the desk and seating himself. "Since you are plainly too uncooperative to leave when asked to do so, I feel under no obligation to pretend to politeness in the face of your bloody-mindedness. I'll be continuing with my  _work_ , Miss Granger, and I suppose you can see yourself out when you're ready to do so." And with that, he bent to the essays once more, red ink flowing freely as he scrawled his way through them.   
  
Hermione stood aghast, completely flummoxed about how to proceed in the wake of Snape's behavior. Finally, she made her way slowly to the door, and stood awhile, in thought. When Snape heard the soft click of the catch, he looked up to see her standing there, a look of cool speculation on her face. Without a word, she waved her wand at the door, locking it once more, and approached the desk with a determined gleam in her eye.   
  
"When I'm ready to do so, I suppose I will," she said, in a voice rivaling Snape's own for iciness. "This, however, is not that time." Quick as a snake, she took his face in both hands and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth when he opened it to register his surprise.   
  


* * *

  
  
Ten minutes later, when the dust had settled, after Snape had railed and cursed, kissed her back, cursed some more, and finally swept her clothes off and buried himself inside her, Hermione threw her head back and contemplated him with an expression of extremely displeased surprise.   
  
"What are you doing?" she asked, scowling briefly before she shuddered at the wave of oddly pleasurable sensations overtaking her.   
  
Snape smirked. "What does it feel like I'm doing?" He thrust into her, and simultaneously slipped his finger a fraction further inside her arse.   
  
"It feels like you need to get that out of there," she snapped, trying to roll out from beneath him. By way of response, he gave his finger a gentle twist, chuckling deeply at the moan that escaped her lips.   
  
"If you will, Hermione, use your formidable powers of reason to analyze this event." She glared at him silently, her eyes fluttering every few seconds as she tried to quell her involuntary responses to his ministrations. "When you climax, the muscles in your perineum contract. Stimulating the nerve endings in the pelvic region heightens the tensions that result in orgasm. And your anus –" he punctuated the word with another subtle movement of his finger "—is home to nearly half the nerve endings in your pelvic region." Hermione's eyes had closed, her face turned to one side, and Snape felt a rush of triumph as he felt her begin to move in time with him. "It only makes sense to use the materials we're given to their fullest potential."   
  
Hermione whimpered, and Snape felt her hips buck against his, her walls tighten around him with a shudder. Finding the sight and feel of her stifled orgasm keenly arousing, he plunged into her again, meeting his own release in just a few, gasping, strokes.   
  
For a moment, the two lay silently, panting heavily, the thin sheen of sweat between them prickling a little uncomfortably. Then Hermione shoved Snape's shoulder forcefully, twisted her hips to dislodge him, and freed herself to stand up. Snape followed, smirking once more, which was a mistake. Hermione took one look at his face, drew her arm back, and slapped him soundly.   
  
Jaw dropping open, he stared at her in disbelief for a moment. "Stop. Doing. That," he finally said, glaring. "Besides, you enjoyed it, didn't you?"  
  
It was Hermione's turn to gape. "That is completely beside the point," she hissed. " _Accio_  my clothes." She held out a hand to catch the bundle as it flew toward her, flung her robe over her shoulders, and stalked to the door where she paused again, in unconscious mimicry of the last time she'd stood there. This time, she turned around at the open door, with no intention of approaching Snape again. After glaring at him a few seconds longer, she simply said, "You are an  _idiot._ "  
  
And then, she was gone.


	21. Always True to You in My Fashion

Always True to You in My Fashion  
  
If a custom-tailored vet  
Asks me out for something wet  
When the vet begins to pet--I cry, "Hooray!"  
  
But I'm always true to you, darlin', in my fashion  
Yes, I'm always true to you, darlin', in my way.  
  
I've been asked to have a meal  
By a big tycoon in steel,  
If the meal includes a deal, accept I may.  
  
But I'm always true to you, darlin', in my fashion  
Yes, I'm always true to you, darlin', in my way.  
  
There's an oil man known as Tex  
Who is keen to give me checks.  
And his checks, I fear, means that Tex is here to stay.  
  
But I'm always true to you, darlin', in my fashion  
Yes, I'm always true to you, darlin', in my way.  
  
  
In retrospect, throwing Ron a birthday party was probably a bad idea. Wrong signals may or may not have been sent; however, wrong signals were certainly received, which was really all that mattered. By the day of the party itself, things had reached a somewhat critical pass, and at five p.m. Hermione found herself pinned unexpectedly to the counter in her narrow galley kitchen, trying desperately to extricate her mouth from Ron's while simultaneously attempting to keep a ladleful of hot chicken tikka masala from splattering all over the room.  
  
" _Get. OFF,_ " she finally managed, shoving him away with one hand and smoothly swinging the ladle back into the simmering pot. "What the bloody  _hell_  do you think you're doing, Ron?"  
  
The look of baffled indignation that came next, she realized, was one of the things she liked least about Ron.   
  
"I'm trying to thank you for throwing me a birthday party, what do you think?"  
  
"Well, use your words, then, why don't you? I know your mother taught you how to speak, I'm quite sure of it in fact. The traditional British expression of gratitude does  _not_  involve shoving your tongue in someone's mouth, unless I missed that day at etiquette school."  
  
"But… but you're my girlfriend. We're  _supposed_  to kiss, Hermione. It's the whole point."  
  
"Your  _what_?"   
  
Ron really should have been warned by the suddenly quiet and suspiciously calm tone in her voice; he should have, but of course, he was not. "My girlfriend, my girlfriend. Hello, Earth to Hermione, haven't you been paying attention?"   
  
Even Ron couldn't miss the impact of the silence that followed, a silence with all the deadly weight of a thundering lorry coming straight at one down a road too narrow to permit escape.   
  
"I will throw this party for you," Hermione said finally, in an icy voice that was somehow even more horrible than the thundering lorry. "Because I said I would, and everyone will be here in an hour. But I want to make this perfectly clear, Ronald, so I want you to listen very, very closely." She leaned closer, eyes narrowing as her glare deepened, her voice almost a whisper. "I am  _not_  your girlfriend. Except for a few very brief periods since our sixth year, I have really never  _been_  your girlfriend, and I do not ever care to be. The way you've behaved recently, I'm not sure I even care to be your friend. At one time you were earnest and somewhat amusing, but now you're just boorish, misogynistic, and so full of yourself that a saint would find it tiresome. If I were your mother, I would be truly mortified, and I suspect Molly _is_  mortified but she's too nice to say, and you're just too thick to notice it." Pausing for breath, Hermione saw that her words were indeed having some effect; Ron's expression had gone from baffled and indignant, to baffled and distressed. She pressed on resolutely.   
  
"Like certain other people, you seem to have failed to notice that in truth, I have until recently not even been available for dating, as I've been carrying on a rather torrid affair with Severus Snape. But even though our relationship has now ended, I don't intend to become  _your_ girlfriend, or indeed anyone else's, for quite some time. But especially not  _your_  girlfriend. That is simply not ever going to happen, so please put that idea out of your mind right now." Ron was no longer meeting her eyes, but staring off to one side, his mouth trembling slightly, as if his brain were having trouble assimilating what it was hearing. "I'm sorry," Hermione continued, "that I haven't been sufficiently explicit about this point before. I just really thought you already knew."  
  
Ron stood for a moment, saying nothing, then turned on his heel and stumbled out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, Hermione heard the front door open and close, and then a murmur of questioning voices from the next room as Harry and Ginny registered Ron's abrupt departure.   
  


* * *

  
  
Beaming and twinkling, Hermione floated through the cramped apartment, never pausing for more than the time it took to refill a wine glass, take up an empty paper plate, exchange a fond embrace with an old school chum. Then into the kitchen, where the plates were tipped into the bin, the wine bottle was exchanged for a tray of savories, and the sulking Ron in the corner was studiously avoided.   
  
A series of puzzled, well-meaning friends came to try to coax him out – it was his own party, after all – but he stubbornly remained sequestered in the kitchen, which was too small for people to stand around chatting in for long. Nobody seemed to mind much; the party was, at its height, going splendidly. With the raucous noise stifled by a few well-placed charms, the neighbors weren't even aware of the gathering, so it seemed assured of continuing long into the night.   
  
And what a night it was… one of those nights of destiny, it seemed, the sort of party from which time would be reckoned by many for years to come.   
  
Neville Longbottom, for instance, had arrived with a lovely girl in spectacles, whose long auburn hair and huge brown eyes were rather similar to Ginny's. That had been the initial attraction, he confessed to Hermione while he waited for his date to return from the loo. But after just a few minutes of conversation, it had become clear that her personality (while wholly delightful) was nothing at all like Ginny's.  
  
"She's so reserved, but then she makes these wickedly funny little remarks every once in awhile, that take you by surprise. So subtle. And she's been everywhere, she's so well-traveled. And she's read all these Muggle authors, so I'm getting a whole new education there. And –"  
  
"And, and…" Hermione interrupted, chuckling. "And how did you two meet, anyway? It's only been a few weeks since we got back to London. I've barely heard from you, and now this?"   
  
"Well, it was just by chance, really," said Neville, eyes shining. Hermione could almost envision wavy flashback-lines obscuring the apartment from his view, as he lost himself in the memory of his first encounter with Eva. "You know my flat is nowhere near Diagon Alley, because I like to be able to walk down the sidewalk and see all the Muggles. I like the feeling that if I wanted to, I could hex the hell out of someone at any time."   
  
"I assume you're not planning on acting on this impulse," commented Hermione.   
  
"Not having a desire to spend the rest of my life in Azkaban, no, I don't. But it's the idea, you know. Anyway, I don't feel that way so much any more. But I keep the flat, because I do like having the telly in the mornings. And there's a super tea shop down the road, where they just started opening for breakfasts two weeks ago."  
  
"All valid reasons to stay on."   
  
"Yes. And not having to live with my Gran, of course. So I decided to look into the breakfast, and I noticed this girl who seemed to be a regular, and as I said, she looked so much like Ginny that I worked up the nerve to talk to her after just a few days. Turns out she's at the LSE, doing a double course in Economics and Sociology."  
  
"She sounds like my kind of girl."  
  
"Exactly. She reminds me much more of you, in a way, than of Ginny, when all is said and done. So, having drummed up my courage over a few breakfasts, I finally asked her out on a date, which she accepted. And it went really well." Neville seemed as astonished as he was pleased by this, and grinned widely. "So I asked her out a second time. We went to dinner, and we'd thought of going to a movie, but we ended up at her place instead because she'd forgotten her cardigan."  
  
"You actually fell for that one, Neville?"  
  
"Hook, line, and the jolly old sinker, I did." He gave her a most un-Neville like wink before continuing. "One thing led to another, as things tend to, and before I knew it, we were… well, suffice it to say we were slowly getting around to saying our goodnights. For quite some time. And at one point she laughs, and pulls back and says, 'Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?'"  
  
"She did  _not._ "  
  
"She did! She did, and without even thinking about it, being the dunce that I am, I came back with, 'No, I keep my wand in my back pocket. I think the thing about hexing your buttocks off is just a myth.'" Neville had to stop for several moments while Hermione regained her composure, and to reassure her several times that this was, indeed, a factual account. "So next… no, really… next, she grabs my arse, pulls my wand out of my pocket, and bursts into tears and laughter at the same time, saying, 'No, no, this can't be happening to me!' Needless to say, this was a bit more than my newly-won confidence was up to."  
  
"I can imagine," said Hermione, finally catching her breath. "What in heaven's name was going on, then?"   
  
"She's a Squib."  
  
"She's a – no."  
  
"Yes. My beautiful Muggle girl, whom I was so planning to impress one day with the revelation of my magical abilities, introducing her to our world… her Dad was a Gryffindor. I found this out because at some point she started beating me about the neck and face with the loose end of my tie, and saying she should have known by the stupid red and gold stripes."   
  
"Why beating you, though?"  
  
"Because I'd expended so much effort at avoiding most of my family for years, because they were magical and I wasn't, and here I'd gone and fallen in love with one of  _them_." Eva peeked over Neville's shoulder, smiling fondly at him as she handed him a fresh glass of wine. "Hello, you must be Hermione. Nice to meet you at last."   
  
"And you. Although it's not so much at last, as I only found out tonight that Neville's been seeing someone. He's been keeping you a secret."   
  
"Not on purpose," Neville mentioned hastily, putting one arm firmly around his date. "I've just been too busy generally to be in touch with anyone. Setting up the new business, you know. And… other things." He did have the manners to blush and look at the ceiling, while Eva momentarily became engrossed in removing, cleaning, and replacing her glasses.   
  
"Well, I suppose I should've expected it, really," said the redhead once she had completed the cleaning process. "The same thing happened to my Mum when she went and tried to lead a normal life among the Muggles."  
  
"There's nothing normal about life among the Muggles," asserted Neville.   
  
"Don't be a snob," Eva said, but giggled as she did so, poking him in the ribs.   
  
All in all, they were very giggly and cuddly, and far too cute for Hermione to stand much longer. After a few more minutes of polite conversation, she made her apologies and escaped, ostensibly to continue mingling and doing other things hostess-y. In fact, she found herself outside the flat, up the stairwell, and sitting on the top landing where, alone at last, she let the tears that had threatened all night begin to fall.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ginny, on the small landing one flight down from the flat, also happened to be crying. In her case, it was not unrequited love but confusion and frustration that caused the condition. When Harry finally found her, startling her so badly she nearly hexed him in her surprise, she was a mess of blotchy skin, puffy eyes, and runny mascara. He saw only her inner beauty, of course; they were still at that stage of their relationship.   
  
"Sorry, Gin. I didn't mean to startle you. But what's the matter, love?" His warm concern prompted only another burst of tears from the already distraught girl, and his attempt to pull her into an embrace was no help. "What's going on? Did something happen?"  
  
"No!" Ginny wailed. "Nothing happened at all! That's the whole point, Harry!" She dissolved into sobs again, leaving Harry still more puzzled.   
  
"Gin… you've really been sort of avoiding me, ever since you moved to the flat, and you've been acting so strangely. Have I done something? I mean, I thought once you were out of the Burrow, things would be… different."  
  
"Sex, you mean. You thought we'd be having sex." She sounded almost angry, which was not what Harry had expected or hoped for.   
  
"Well. Yes, actually. Among other things. Having breakfast together. Having dinner together. Having the rest of our lives together, that sort of thing."   
  
"Oh, Harry," Ginny wept, sinking into his shoulder, "I'm so stupid, and I just don't deserve you. I really don't."   
  
Harry pulled her closer and sat for a minute, just holding her and stroking her hair gently. Finally, he sighed and looked down at her, craning his neck to try to see whether she was still crying. "Ginny, I need you to tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, it'll be all right, but I can't help you if I don't know. Please?"   
  
Ginny pulled away and looked at him, biting her lip. Finally, seeming to come to a decision, she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said very quietly but clearly, "Harry, I'm still a virgin."  
  
Harry stared at her, his mouth slightly ajar, sure that he must have heard her wrong. He'd never dreamed she would admit it on her own, and he was now faced with making sure she never found out Hermione had told him.  
  
"Harry, did you hea—"  
  
"Shhhh." He raised a finger to her lips, then held it up to his own in a request for silence, and continued to stare at her. After a minute, he seemed to come to a decision of his own. He stood up, pulling her to her feet as well, and tugged her after him down the stairs. Once out of the building, he swept her under his arm, muttered, "Brace yourself," and Apparated them both to the pavement outside number twelve, Grimmauld Place. With the usual sickening lurch, they popped into being beside his front door, and were inside with the door locked again before Ginny had even regained her footing.   
  
Spinning her around to face him, Harry said, "Now. Say that once more. Please."   
  
"I really don't want to say it again," whispered Ginny, her lips trembling as though she might start crying again.   
  
Harry didn't really need to hear it again. He already knew it was true, and he could even imagine how it had happened. Little by little, lie by lie, in the ruthlessly cruel way of teenaged boys and the mortified, hideously self-conscious way of teenaged girls. Taking the path of least resistance, which had hardly seemed Ginny's style, but which had landed her here, with him. And had left him with the decision of what to do next.   
  
"What to do, what to do," he whispered thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on her shoulders as he continued to hold her in place opposite him.   
  
"I suppose you want to hear why—"  
  
"No. No, I don't. Not right now, anyway. Quiet, please, while I decide on an appropriate course of action." He gave her a tiny smile, and could feel her begin to relax as she smiled tentatively back.   
  
"Don't I get a say?" Ginny asked, starting to feel a little braver now that the horrible moment was over and the relief of shedding the secret had begun to kick in.  
  
"I think you've said quite enough already, don't you?" Harry grinned impishly, his green eyes gleaming at Ginny in a most tantalizing way. "Besides, this is clearly my decision. Whether to give you the fabulous gift of my astonishing lovemaking prowess right now, or make you wait until we're married to experience the sheer bliss of  _me_."  
  
Ginny gasped, then started laughing. Cackling, really. Unable to keep a straight face, Harry cracked up too, and they fell into each other's arms, howling, then giggling, and finally snickering their way into a kiss.   
  
"You sounded like a cross between Ron and Gilderoy Lockhart," Ginny said at last.   
  
"That's exactly what I was going for." Harry suddenly turned serious, and continued, "But you know I really do want to marry you, right? Because I love you."  
  
Ginny eyed him appraisingly for a moment. "All right. And I love you. But you know I really do want to have sex with you sooner than that, right?"   
  
The impact of their words settled around them, and they met each other's gaze in silence for several seconds.   
  
Harry moved first, lifting his hands to either side of Ginny's face, and kissing her tenderly, just grazing his lips against hers. It was Ginny who deepened the kiss, raising up on her toes and straining against him in a sudden rush of emotion and need that left them both a little shaky.   
  
When they pulled apart, Harry's impish grin was back, and he took Ginny's lust-filled, lopsided smile as all the encouragement he needed. With fingers nimble from years of grabbing at Snitches, he unbuttoned the silky forest-green blouse she'd worn to the party, and deftly slipped the hook and eye open on her gabardine trousers. Another swift motion had the front catch on her bra undone, and in a matter of seconds, Ginny found herself almost completely unfastened, although still more or less clothed.   
  
Leaning in to kiss her again, Harry brushed his fingers against the soft silk of her blouse before lifting it away to slip his hands underneath. Her skin was equally silky, warm to the touch, and she made a small noise of pleasure as his hands explored the path from her waist to the underside of her breasts. Pushing the bra aside, he cupped both breasts softy, teasing her nipples with his thumbs, and feeling immensely aroused when Ginny gave a low growl of pleasure and bit gently on his lower lip.   
  
When she raised her hands to start undressing him, however, he stopped her.   
  
"This is all wrong," he said, winking to reassure her. "Come with me."   
  
"Ooh, to see your etchings?" Ginny giggled, following along behind Harry as he crossed the entrance hall and led her up one flight of stairs to the room he had finally decided to call his own. Before he closed the door, he moved his school tie from where it hung on the inner knob, to hang on the outer knob. The age-old signal, lest Ron return and interrupt them.   
  
"Right. Over here." Without warning, Harry scooped Ginny into his arms and laid her down on the bed, stifling her further giggles with a kiss that left her breathless. "Hmmm. Something's still not quite…" He eyed her trim form as he knelt beside her, pulling out his wand and tapping it speculatively into his other hand as he considered her. "A-hah! I have it!" And with a quick flourish, he had Transfigured her party blouse into a nubbly, purple bathrobe. The rest of her clothing was nowhere to be seen – or felt, as Ginny quickly discovered she was quite naked beneath the simulacrum of her own comfortable robe.   
  
"Much better," said Harry, stowing his wand away, kicking his shoes off, and reaching over to arrange the folds of the robe to reveal just the side of one breast, which he proceeded to stroke with his fingers while admiring his handiwork. "I felt so cheated that day, you know. Had I but known…"  
  
"You wouldn't have got much further, anyway. I really was about to stop you." Ginny had raised one hand to trail her fingers over his own at her breast, feeling somehow less nervous than she had been.   
  
"Why were you going to – oh. Yeah, right, of course. Cat would've been out of the bag, then, wouldn't it?" He smirked naughtily. "As opposed to having the pussy in the sack, where I wanted it all along – ouch!" She had whacked him soundly on the top of the head, and he knew he deserved it, despite his loud complaint.  
  
Ginny laughed merrily, and rolled onto her side to face Harry, raising her elbow and propping her head on one hand. The motion, unbeknownst to her, caused the robe to fall half-open, uncovering far more than she intended. Not one to let such an opportunity slip by, Harry lowered himself down to lie facing her, mirroring her position, and resumed his gentle stroking of her breast. This time, he followed with kisses, tenderly across the swell of her chest, more assertively on the sensitive skin below her nipple. Slowly, gently, as he took the pebbled bud into his mouth for a languorous suck, he rocked Ginny on to her back, letting the weight of his body settle over her. To a chorus of tiny moans and gasps, and the feel of her strong fingers threading through his hair, Harry kissed his way down her body, pushing the robe aside until he reached his goal and settled hungrily between her legs.   
  
The first touch of his hot breath at her core brought a louder moan from Ginny, and Harry had to mentally start listing potions ingredients to keep his mind off his burgeoning erection. After a moment, he slipped his tongue down to wander along one petal-like outside lip then the other, teasing his way towards her glistening center and then out again. When his tongue finally dipped inside, she thrust her hips upward, crying out and loosing her fingers from his hair. A quick glance showed Harry a momentary vision of Ginny, her head thrown back in abandon, her hands grasping the coverlet as she arched closer to the source of her pleasure, before he returned his full attention to his work.  
  
Licking and lipping his way slowly up once more, Harry found Ginny's clit and began to tease it to an even higher state of excitement. Pausing only long enough to wet a finger in his mouth, he slipped his tongue over the swollen nub, and slowly stroked his finger between her folds, matching the rhythm of his mouth and hand to the unconscious movement of Ginny's hips.   
  
At last, he slid the tapered end of his finger just inside, unable to progress further beyond the encircling band of flesh. Hot, and so tight… Harry was chagrined to find that the thought of that tightness was making him maddeningly erect once more. He pushed his finger a fraction further, and Ginny winced despite herself. Harry would have withdrawn, had she not grabbed his hand with her own, holding him in place. For a moment he stilled his finger and concentrated elsewhere, until the ministrations of his tongue began to take precedence once more and Ginny's whimpers took on a different, more urgent tone. Keeping her hand on his, she tried to push into him, but met with resistance again.   
  
Sensing her frustration, and motivated by his own mounting desire, Harry drew back, but kept up a light stroking with his hand, making Ginny simultaneously embarrassed and aroused as he raised his head to meet her eyes. She blushed prettily as he smiled up at her, but didn't look away as he'd thought she might.  _So brave_ , he thought, with a momentary flash of admiration that had nothing to do with the sex. Just to see her reaction, he stretched out his tongue for one very deliberate lick while she watched, then watched in turn as her blush deepened and spread down her shoulders. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and the flash of pink only served to inflame Harry further. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing his trousers were off, knowing he was smarter to keep them on for the moment.  
  
"Well, you were certainly right to stop me before, if you wanted to keep your secret safe," Harry said, and cupped her with his hand, letting her silky, ginger curls play over his fingers.   
  
"I'm not stopping you now, though," she pointed out, rubbing against him more boldly than he was expecting (more boldly than, in truth, she felt; but Ginny often faced down anxiety through acts of courage). "Aren't you going to, um—" Words and courage failed her at the same time and, with a frustrated groan, she raised her hands to her own hair and gave a short, sharp tug.   
  
"Yes, I am going to 'um.'" Harry moved his hand a bit, massaging her with his palm, and she ground against him again. He looked smug, in that way that only young men who are busy caressing a willing, extremely eager, partner can look. "But not with my hand. And I want to make sure you're enjoying this, too. So just… relax and enjoy, for a minute, okay?" She looked uncertain, and he moved his hand more deliberately, and started brushing kisses across her hipbones. "Okay?" Harry asked again after a few moments, his voice a bit muffled.   
  
"Okay," Ginny whispered, her eyes already heavy with desire again, her legs moving restlessly as she gave in to his attentions. "It's just I've never done… nobody's ever done  _this_  either, and I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to… aahhh."   
  
Having decided to waste no further time, Harry had sucked her clit between his lips, and begun flicking it rapidly with his tongue, while his fingers traced lines through the slick dew below. When she started to pant, and cry out, he dipped his finger inside her once more, as far as he dared, and began to thrust gently, using the other hand to tease and open her further. She came almost immediately with his name on her lips, and then came down slowly, overcome, trembling, still wanting more.   
  
When her tremors subsided, Harry gently released her, and lifted himself to kneel somewhat awkwardly between her legs, his hands still resting on her parted thighs. She was unbelievably beautiful, sprawled beneath him like this, and he had another rush of admiration, of not-believing-his-good-fortune, which was rapidly overwhelmed by the urgent need to get his clothes off and shag her as soon as possible.   
  
He already had his shirt off, and was just about to start on his trousers, when Ginny's eyes fluttered open and she put her hand over his again.   
  
"I want to do that," she said, like a naughty daydream, and worked his belt buckle open, sitting up to work more efficiently. She pushed Harry back on the bed, the more easily to remove his jeans, and managed to pull them down and off in one smooth motion, pulling his socks along with them. Proud of herself, she turned to face the reality of the situation, which was standing there making a sizeable tent of his boxers. Ginny took a deep breath, got up her nerve, and was reaching for his waistband, when Harry laughed and stopped her hands.   
  
"Ginny, you look really grim. I'm sort of afraid to let you touch it with that expression on your face." Ginny looked taken aback, then laughed too, somewhat sheepishly, and shrugged. Harry rolled to one side, much as she had earlier, and propped himself on one hand. With the other, he tugged her down to lie next to him, then stroked her arm tenderly, making no demands. "Are you sure you want to do this right now? We don't have to, you know. It's not like Now and Wedding Night are our only two options."  
  
"I know, and I really do want to do this right now. I mean, I want to, and I  _really_ want to right now. But I don't really know  _what to do_. Or… it's like I don't know what I want to do  _first_ , actually."   
  
"Kid in a candy shop? Too many choices? So I'm the candy, is that it?"   
  
"Sort of. I think sex is the candy, and you're the shop owner, or something."   
  
"Have you been having sex with candy shop owners while I wasn't looking?"  
  
"Only when they offered me really good candy."   
  
Then she giggled, and he kissed her, and suddenly it was all she could do not to reach down and tear the pants right off him. When she did reach down, he guided her hand, keeping her lips occupied with his while he taught her wordlessly how to touch him. Through the thin cotton of his boxers, she felt his taut skin, the faint pulse and jump of the muscular organ, and was surprised at how firmly he wanted her to hold it. Surprised, too, once he had slipped his shorts off, that he soon guided her hand further down, to cup and stroke his bollocks, an activity he seemed to enjoy even more. She found herself wondering --  _what a very strange thing to think_ \-- what his reaction would be if, one day, she were to flutter her tongue across that oddly cool, pliant skin, much as he had fluttered his against hers a few minutes ago. Then, realizing in a moment of clarity exactly  _which_  organ she was thinking about so tenderly, she murmured a contraceptive spell, chiding herself for almost forgetting.  
  
Then he rolled her beneath him, and all thoughts abandoned her as he began stroking her again, as his erection pressed insistently into her thigh, impossible to ignore. He kissed her gently, patiently, letting hers be the next move. He felt something like triumph, when she curved her long legs around and over his, and lowered her slender hand between them, guiding him into place.   
  
He thrust forward, meeting too much resistance to go far, and Ginny made a pained face. Then she wrapped herself more tightly around him, and pushed against his buttocks with her heels.   
  
"Ginny, wait."  
  
"Just do it, Harry. I want you to. I know it'll only hurt for a bit, at first." She was breathing rapidly, clutching him, feeling herself grow somewhat frantic with need and suspense. She no longer cared if it hurt; she wanted the waiting to be over.  
  
"Wait," he said firmly, and flipped them both over. He had dislodged himself in the process, and she wound up straddling his hips, with his member prominent behind her. Like a faux pas, which out of politeness neither of them referred to, much to Ginny's relief. "This might work better," said Harry, and brought one hand to her hip, his thumb finding her clit and beginning to circle it, as his other hand stole upward to caress her breasts.   
  
Already aroused, and all but completely innocent of such stimulation at the hands of another person, Ginny responded with a speed that surprised them both. In a very short time, she was near the edge again, and Harry encouraged her to raise her hips just enough to allow him entrance. Turned on, with frustration drowning out any remaining anxiety, Ginny brought herself down on him hard, Harry rising to meet her, just as her orgasm hit. She cried out in pain and pleasure, then rode him inexpertly but gloriously, her climax drawn out by the unfamiliar sensations of his hand, still moving against her, and of being filled.   
  
Harry gritted his teeth and groaned with the effort not to move, not to come; he wanted just to watch her, as she drifted back to awareness, one of his hands still covering her breast, feeling every hitching breath, every tiniest sound, through her silken skin. When her eyes flew open at last, she laughed spontaneously, and the vibration elicited another groan from Harry. Ginny moved again, experimentally, and gasped when he flexed inside her. Her eyes widened, and she purposefully circled her hips, then tightened around him with a wicked grin.  
  
At such provocation, Harry gave up all pretense at patience and gripped Ginny's hips firmly, schooling her movements into an even cadence. Finally, he pulled her down and rolled them over again, and allowed himself to thrust into her at last, until he was completely enveloped. He trembled, then, swallowing, pushed deeper than he meant to, and was surprised to feel Ginny's legs encircling him once more, her hips lifting to his, pulling him deeper still. She was so tight, it was too much to resist any longer, and he gave in to temptation and began to thrust without restraint, more and more eagerly, overjoyed to feel Ginny moving in time with him. With a final, shuddering plunge, he came, burying himself so deeply inside her he felt as though he might never get loose. And he never wanted to, he never wanted to.


	22. What is This Thing Called Love?

What Is This Thing Called Love?  
  
I was a hum-drum person  
Leading a life apart  
When love flew in through my window wide  
And quickened my hum-drum heart  
Love flew in through my window  
I was so happy then  
But after love had stayed a little while  
Love flew out again  
  
What is this thing called love?  
This funny thing called love?  
Just who can solve its mystery?  
Why should it make a fool of me?  
I saw you there one wonderful day  
You took my heart and threw it away  
That's why I ask the Lord in Heaven above  
What is this thing called love?  
  
  
Ron was quite busy moping. First he moped at Grimmauld Place. But he soon realized that, with Harry spending most of his time at Hermione and Ginny's flat, there was really nobody left to see him unless he expanded his scope.   
  
Next, he tried tagging along with Harry, and moping at the girls' flat. That lasted for one excruciating evening, during which Harry and Ginny disappeared into her room to "listen to a new radio programme," and Hermione left Ron alone after a few minutes to go and join Neville, Eva, and some of Eva's school friends for dinner and a movie. Hermione and Eva, it transpired, had some Muggle friends in common at the LSE. Ron wasn't certain, but he suspected that Hermione was now dating one, or possibly two, of these Muggles. She pointedly did not invite Ron to accompany her; as a result, he wound up moping on the girls' divan for an hour or so, before finally Apparating himself home for a nice, long, sulk.   
  
Moping in pubs had had limited effect, as well. Rather than inciting nubile young lovelies to approach him with offers of succor – as he had hoped – Ron's sullen countenance acted like a force field, keeping all and sundry as far from him as possible.   
  
Moping at practice was, of course, right out.   
  
For the nonce, Ron had decided to try his luck moping at the Burrow, where at least his mother might see him and pay him the attention he felt he richly deserved. He was at least half right; Molly did see him. However, when she finally gave him her attention, it was none of the sort he wanted or felt he deserved. It would take him until some weeks afterward to realize it was the sort of attention he sorely needed.   
  
"Well, of course she doesn't want to be your girlfriend, Ron. I love you, darling, but you must admit you've been behaving like a horse's you-know-what for the past two years." Molly delivered this message so matter-of-factly that Ron almost couldn't believe he was hearing it. She removed all doubt by continuing, "Honestly, I'm your own mother, and even I haven't much cared to spend time around you recently. I don't blame Hermione one bit. Nor any of these others, either. Keep going the way you are, and you'll end up alone and friendless."   
  
"I can't believe you'd say that to me," gasped Ron. "My own  _mother_!" He stared in frank astonishment.  
  
"Close your mouth, darling, that's most unattractive. Who better to say it to you?" As she spoke, Molly was efficiently preparing dinner, her wand flicking from right to left, ingredients and dishes moving about the kitchen in such a familiar pattern that Ron scarcely noticed it. "Perhaps I made a mistake to keep from saying it for as long as I did. I just kept hoping you would realize on your own that you'd made a hopeless mess of things with Hermione. It's really just time for you to grow up a bit, and find some nice girl to settle down with."  
  
"But, Mum," whined Ron, "I was planning to settle down with her eventually. And she should've been flattered. It's not as though anybody else had given her the time of day, anyway." He knew this was probably a lie, given her likely involvement with the Muggle economics students, but he pressed on stubbornly. "And she was so ugly to me about it. All she could do was make some lame joke about how she'd been having an affair. Ugh. With  _Snape_. Couldn't she even think up anyone better? I'm a professional Quidditch player, at least. She could have come up with better phony competition than the greasy git."  
  
Molly's wand stopped waving, and she turned very slowly to look at her son, as though seeing him clearly for the first time in a long time. She looked a little amused, a little depressed, and even a little nostalgic. It had been so many years since she was as painfully  _young_  as the boy before her, and in some ways she envied him the time he still had before him. Time to change, she sincerely hoped.   
  
"Ron," she said softly, "you are a second-string Quidditch player who will probably need to look into a back-up career before very much longer. You are also, I am sorry to say, a self-centered, flighty womanizer. Hermione is a very lovely, very bright young woman, whom I happen to know is much sought after by a number of young men… ones with futures much more promising than yours seems to be at the moment." She took a deep breath before continuing. "What's more, Severus Snape is – oh, Ron, I know this will be hard to understand, but – Severus Snape is… oh, he's just sex on legs. To quite a number of women. Honestly, he's catnip. To… to some. And so it didn't surprise me at all to learn that Hermione had turned down all those nice young men to pursue him instead." Ron had begun to pale noticeably, and gape again, this time in horror. Molly continued ruthlessly. "But I think they had much more than that between them. In fact, I'm one of the many people who hope they can find a way through their differences, and resume their relationship. Ron, love, could you  _really_  not have known they were seeing one another? I know Harry knew, and Ginny, and – well, everyone, more or less; didn't anyone  _tell_  you?"  
  
Of course they had, they all had in one way or another, but Ron couldn't bring himself to admit this. A joke… it had always seemed like a joke, and not a particularly nice one. Because nobody could really be serious, could they? Hermione? Snape? When Hermione could've been with him, with a professional Quidditch player?  _Snape… sex on legs?_  And his mother, his  _own mother_ , the one to say so?  
  
Molly was still waiting for an answer; Ron was not able to give her one. Instead he stood up silently, teeth clenched, left the homey kitchen, and vanished into the chilly night, alone.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_I seem to spend so much of my time packing, these days._  
  
Hermione folded the blouse carefully, by hand as always, and added it neatly to the stack of similar items already in the second drawer of her wardrobe-style trunk. She confessed a secret pleasure, to herself, in some of these rather old-fashioned trappings of the wizarding life… things that predated the industrial-revolution-fostered technology that was anathema to most of wizarding kind. Well-made things, from a time when things were done by hand. Among Muggle-kind, at least. She slid the drawer shut, and moved to consider the shoes currently lining the bottom of her small closet.   
  
 _You're being compulsive, again… classic avoidance technique._  
  
Ignoring her persistent – and irritating – inner voice, Hermione rifled through her small collection of footwear, tossing several pairs into the nearly-full bin by the door, and carefully packing the remainder in the small valise that fitted neatly in at the foot of her trunk. She had saved her closet for last, and was nearly done but for a few hard-to-pack hanging items, so the whole flat was already taking on that empty, unoccupied look. What little furniture she planned to keep had already been sent along, as had her books, so the flat even sounded emptier, almost echoing.   
  
 _You're stalling…_  
  
The sing-song tone was really just too much, and she clamped down on her subconscious, and began yanking the final few items off their hangers in the closet, and then slinging them onto trunk hangers with wandwork she would have scoffed at in school. The heavy woolen overcoat, the two conservative blazers, the dress she'd worn to her cousin's wedding and couldn't bring herself to throw away ( _you're never really going to have it shortened and wear it to a party, you know, you should just get rid of it_ ) because the odd off-green color was unaccountably fantastic on her. The classically-cut robes she favored for work, in a handful of very dark jewel tones, most with subtle patterns or trimwork to add texture and keep them from looking too staid.  
  
And there it was, at last. Hanging by itself in the closet, swinging gently back and forth on its padded hanger. Hanging there innocently, she might almost have though, but that there was so clearly nothing innocent about the deep jewel-red, the daring décolletage, the touch-me velvet that had done its job all too well on that night. Could it be just four months ago? That or thereabouts, she acknowledged to herself, as she pulled the dress down and let the garnet cloth drape itself over her hands.   
  
 _So obvious. Low-cut red velvet._  
  
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" she murmured, smiling to herself bitterly.  _Perhaps a little too well._  
  
Hermione no longer heard the nagging voice, lost in a strange reverie as she was. In a trice, her clothes were shrugged off, the red dress pulled on, feeling formal and unfamiliar over her bare skin. Ignoring the glimpse of herself in the large mirror on the door of the closet, she squeezed her eyes shut and ran her hands over the whisper-soft fabric of the skirt, the bodice, letting herself be transported back to that night, that place.   
  
The chill of the dungeons would have already made her nipples stand out, hidden though they were beneath the organza at the dress's neckline. No need to simulate that chill, she found, letting herself fall deeper and deeper into what-if.   
  
 _"Everyone deserves a second chance," she whispered.  
  
"Gryffindor philosophy." Still keeping his eyes locked on her own, Snape raised one hand to Hermione's hair, brushing just his fingertips through the loose curls before reaching behind her head to loosen the hairpins deftly. Once free, her hair tumbled down, and he plunged his hand through it to twine his long, capable fingers into the locks at the nape of her neck, effectively holding her head in one place. Hermione swallowed hard as his fingers brushed the fine hairs behind her ears, making her shiver with anticipation. She felt her cheeks flush again, her breath quicken, but still, he held back.   
  
He brought his other hand up to rub gently at Hermione's full lower lip with his thumb, clearly planning to capture her mouth and plunder it again, drawing an unequivocal line in the sand for Hermione to cross or run from. But at the last moment, his long hands framing her face, she found him bestowing upon her a kiss that was tender, almost chaste. Her silken lips met his with no resistance, and opened delicately when he pressed further. When his tongue dipped and found her own, shy and velvet, willing, she was almost overcome by emotions she couldn't begin to name. It took her breath away, and when they finally leaned away from one another she felt disoriented, as though she were not quite standing upright. _  
  
Hermione's fingers began to slip down the front of the dress, brushing past her nipples to tug slowly at the skirt, raising it inch by inch. At some point, without quite realizing it, she had braced her back against the jamb of the closet door; now, she hardly noticed the slight discomfort of the wood pressing into her back. Hermione's ability to focus her attention was useful for more than just studying.   
  
 _Not willing to leave his embrace, Hermione echoed his earlier movement, bringing her hands up to either side of his face, and pulling him in again for a kiss. She began tenderly enough, but when he would have pulled back, she leaned closer and began to kiss him more passionately, tugging him against her until they were backed up into the desk once more. Snape's lust getting the better of his control, he finally gave rein to his hands, which began exploring her body in its velvet confines.  
  
All too confining, he obviously thought, for after a few teasingly soft and brief passes over her achingly hard nipples, then a quick detour down to stroke and cup her buttocks, his supple fingers found the short column of buttons that marched down her back. One by one, the buttons opened, as he – one by one, the buttons – _  
  
"Bloody hell," said Hermione in exasperation, giving up trying to reach behind her, and reaching instead for her wand, to undo the tricky buttons.   
  
 _– opened, as he caressed the skin revealed by his actions. He paused, raising his head to watch her, his kisses stilled but his hands still making their slow, subtle assault on her body. In his eyes, on his lips, Hermione recognized that same look of wistfulness she had seen her seventh year, and it did almost more than his hands to arouse her to a degree that was nearly unbearable.  
  
Silently, he lowered his lips to hers again, then trailed his burning kisses down, following her dress as it fell to the floor, lingering at her nipples for too long, too short a time, before continuing on his way. A slight nudge of his arm was enough to lift her trembling leg free of the fallen gown; propping it over his shoulder allowed him freer access to his goal.   
  
Snape wasted little time in teasing, but swiftly found the most sensitive spot on her throbbing clitoris, and began flicking it confidently with his tongue, squeezing with his lips to pull the hot bud further into his eager mouth. One long finger toyed with her wet lips, then slipped inside insistently, striking a harsh rhythm almost immediately. When a second finger joined the first, their combined thrusts were nearly enough to send Hermione over the edge…_  
  
Biting her bottom lip, trying hard to hang on to her fantasy, Hermione tasted a familiar, sharp tang as she nibbled the much-abused area too firmly, once too often. The coppery flavor jolted her back to her room for a moment, and she opened her eyes to see herself in the full-length mirror, naked, one hand working furiously at her clit while the other pumped hard below. She had used her foot to hook her desk chair closer to herself, to prop her leg up; the resulting angle, while making her current activity easier, looked most unattractive when viewed suddenly and unexpectedly.   
  
Hermione closed her eyes, squeezing them tight, trying to push the sudden glimpse of her rather pathetic reality out of her mind, replacing it with the fantasy vision that was going so well.   
  
 _Snape was now smirking at her. Standing up, with his customized spell-driven breeze allowing his robes to billow and settle dramatically as he did so, he folded his arms and sneered a little, raising one eyebrow as he cast a dubious eye down her naked form.  
  
"A contemptible lack of focus, Miss Granger," he said in his most oily voice. "I suppose I should have expected as much from the bushy-haired, know-it-all Gryffindor. How lamentably predictable you are."_  
  
But Hermione's powers of concentration were indeed formidable – and she loved nothing so well as a challenge. Setting her hands into motion once more, she willed herself fully into the dungeon setting, letting herself feel the warmed edge of the wooden desk beneath her bottom, the nip of the air over her exposed body, the press of her four-inch stiletto heels ( _Well, why not, it's a fantasy anyway, isn't it? Might as well dress the part_ ) into the unforgiving stone of the floor.   
  
 _Snape was watching her play with herself, his skeptical look slowly becoming more appreciative as her movements grew more purposeful. Tiring of her position, Hermione leaned back on the desk until she was prone, and lifted one long leg to Snape's shoulder. He caught her foot in his hand and held it propped on his shoulder, then pulled up the other one as well, spreading her legs apart and quite evidently enjoying this salacious vantage point._  
  
"Keep going, pet," he instructed, and Hermione was happy to oblige. She found her pace again, and was nearing an end to the business, when Snape stopped her with a firm hand on hers. Sliding one finger alongside hers, he dipped inside her, pumping in and out a few times until his digit was thoroughly slick. Then, pausing only to indicate she was to continue at a slower rate, he started to toy with her perineum, sliding his wet finger up and down, and pressing into the sensitive muscle in time with the movements of Hermione's thrusting hand.   
  
When he finally worked the moist appendage into her tight, but willing arse, Hermione shuddered, wanting to speed up.   
  
"Not until I say so," Snape said sternly, and began moving his finger gently, further and further into her, loosening the tight ring of muscle until he was able to begin pumping in and out in slow, random strokes, deliberately out of synch with Hermione's ministrations to herself. He watched her then, from above, with an expression that hovered between amusement, lust, and cruelty, until at last he let his rhythm begin to match hers. "Now you may," he said almost needlessly, for Hermione was already past the point of no return. Arching into her own hand and his, she gasped out his name as she climaxed violently, started to relax, then much to her own surprise peaked again, with a startled whimper and a renewed frenzy of manual encouragement.   
  
As her tremors subsided, Hermione lay spent on the bare bed, her feet still carelessly thrown up on the topmost rung of the ladderback chair. Not for several minutes, not until after she was in the shower, with the water running hot and the steam beginning to rise, did she finally let herself cry.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Albus, have you gone quite mad? You're worse than ever."   
  
"My dear, we must have somebody to cover Professor Rudleine's classes for the rest of the term."  
  
"Has St. Mungo's given you any sort of time frame…?" Professor McGonagall's brow knotted with concern; despite her annoyance with the Headmaster, she was still appalled at the bizarre fate that had befallen the latest unfortunate to attempt the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.   
  
"No, and in the meantime, examinations are rapidly approaching." Dumbledore calmly leafed through the thin sheaf of papers on his desk, letting his fingers come to rest on the resume over which he and his assistant were currently arguing. "She was the most qualified applicant."  
  
"You're just matchmaking. Admit it."  
  
"I will do nothing of the sort," the Headmaster said somewhat sternly, before his face softened and he met her gaze fondly. "And what if you're right, Minerva? Would that be such a terrible thing?"  
  
"I'm as fond of the two of them – yes, Albus, I  _am_  fond of Severus, and you know it – as fond of the  _two_  of them as anyone could be. And I, for one, do wish they had been able to come to some sort of accommodation between them. But as things stand…"  
  
"She'll be a new instructor, much like any other new instructor, only much more beloved by her employers than any to have taken the post so far. But still a gainfully employed adult with her own mind, and with other options from among which she might have chosen. She applied for this position on her own. If she chooses to make any other, more personal, arrangements while she's here, that's really nobody's affair but her own." He said so, but he couldn't stop the twinkle that lit up his eyes as he spoke.   
  
"Albus, I don't even know if he's quite well. Even since the war, he's still so  _damaged_. I think… I fear he'll destroy her." McGonagall's frankness never failed to touch Dumbledore, and he did his best to answer in kind, despite his own penchant for indirectness.  
  
"You underestimate her. She rises to a challenge. I think, indeed, right now she  _needs_  a challenge. And where will she find a greater challenge than Severus Snape?"  
  
"But how could she ever find happiness with him, when he's so full of anger? Not just at himself, but at the world? He's tried to master it, I know, and I admire him tremendously for it. But –"   
  
"My very dear Minerva, I can't help but think your question is moot. For I don't believe she will ever find any happiness  _without_  him. Or at least not without finding out what might be between them. Severus may be damaged, but so are we all, in our various ways. Hermione, too, you know." At her dubious look, he asserted his point more strongly. "Nobody comes through a war unscathed. We must all struggle to make peace with ourselves… but that doesn't mean we can't also strive to help our loved ones find that peace. Perhaps they can even help one another begin to heal. As for happy ever after, if it is to be, they will have to construct their own version of that. As all couples must, ultimately." He smiled at her then, the smile he reserved exclusively for her, and her face lit up for a moment as she returned the look. Then it darkened with concern again, as he had known it would.  
  
"But shouldn't we – "  
  
"We can only wish them well," he said softly. "And, of course… provide them with the fairy-tale castle."


	23. So In Love

So In Love  
  
Strange, dear, but true, dear,   
When I'm close to you, dear,  
The stars fill the sky,  
So in love with you am I.  
  
Even without you,  
My arms fold about you,  
You know, darling, why,  
So in love with you am I.  
  
In love with the night mysterious,  
The night when you first were there,  
In love with my joy delirious,  
When I knew that you could care.  
  
So taunt me, and hurt me,  
Deceive me, desert me,  
I'm yours 'til I die,  
So in love, so in love,   
So in love with you, my love, am I.  
  
  
It had been ten days. Ten days of sneaking looks when the other wasn't looking, ten days of wondering whether the other might show up at the door. Of deciding to make the first move, then deciding that it simply wasn't the right time.   
  
And then, on that tenth day, a Friday, by the evening owl post, there came a package. Small, oblong, wrapped in unobtrusive brown paper, falling into Hermione's lap like the proverbial ball falling into her court.   
  
Except that this was no tennis ball, obviously. Heeding the anonymous, but familiar, handwriting on the outermost wrapping, that suggested she "Open later, when alone," Hermione took the parcel to her room immediately after dinner. Out of habit, she cast a few quick charms to detect any possible danger or tampering. Then, her caution satisfied and her curiosity raging, she slipped off the string and unwrapped the heavy paper. Inside the packaging was indeed a box, a black silk jewelry box, of the kind that usually held a necklace.   
  
This one didn't. Quite.   
  
Hermione frowned in puzzlement at the choker, which was almost severe in its simplicity. Black velvet, adorned only by a small, round, silver fob on a silver teardrop-shaped loop. Etched into the disk on one side was a delicately carved "G;" flipping the charm over, Hermione saw a similarly styled "S."   
  
Still at a loss to determine the deeper meaning of the gift – for surely there was some deeper meaning here – Hermione plucked out the tiny fold of paper that had been tucked under the strap of the choker. As her fingers brushed the fabric, she vaguely registered that it was not, in fact, velvet, but a very fine suede.  _Curiouser and curiouser…_  
  
The note simply read: "Yes or no?"  
  
 _Not much help there. Yes or no to what?_  
  
Hermione pulled the little choker from its white satin moorings, and gave it a closer look. Plain black suede, albeit very soft and fine… plain silver charm with only the subtlest engraving of initials that could stand for "Granger" or "Gryffindor," "Snape" or "Slytherin," a clasp shaped like a tiny silver buckle, and no other telltale details that might…   
  
Oh.  _Oh._  
  
Hermione's jaw dropped, and she turned the item over and over in her hands, her mind seeking futilely for some other possible explanation, some other possible meaning, for this object and the terse note that accompanied it.   
  
No. There was no way around it.   
  
It was a collar.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
She hadn't wanted to do the predictable thing, but Hermione found herself down in the dungeons as soon as her hallway sweep was finished. Severus answered her knock quite promptly. She suspected he'd been waiting, and she caught the nervous tension in his jaw, his upper lip, as he attempted a dispassionate sneer upon opening his door. He stared at her silently, and the moment stretched out long past the point of comfort.  
  
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Hermione asked finally, cocking an eyebrow.   
  
His eyes flicked down to her neck, which was ostentatiously bare of any and all accessories. "I suppose so," he said at last, dully. "If you must. I suppose you feel entitled to a chilly scene, which leaves us both feeling worse than before, after which we promise to be cordial to one another for the sake of professionalism. I've heard of such things. You surely know the forms much better than I." His tone grew more and more bitter as he spoke, his fathomless black eyes narrowing to a spiteful glare.   
  
Hermione simply said, "Thank you," and moved quietly to what had been her usual seat by the bookcase. "I wasn't really looking for that sort of scene, however."  
  
"Then  _what_?" he spat out hatefully. "Why are you  _here_ , Hermione?"  
  
"Do you mean 'why am I here at Hogwarts,' or 'why am I here in your sitting room?'" she asked politely.  
  
Snape just glared at her, saying nothing, giving nothing away. His arms were folded with deliberate elegance across his chest, a stereotypically guarded pose Hermione hadn't seen Snape use since the night of the Yule Ball. At the moment, in shirtsleeves and trousers, he looked less forbidding than he would have in his robes; nevertheless, the effect was still a good one.  
  
"Well," she went on, her tone still measured and calm, "I'm here at Hogwarts because, as you know, I've accepted a teaching position. On a provisional basis, but I may stay on next year if things go well. And I'm sure I could tell you many things about why I left the Ministry, how any mysteries that need to be solved are certainly not likely to be solved the way they're going about it, and so on. But," she admitted, "I don't think that's  _really_  what you were asking, was it?"   
  
His icy stare never wavered; Hermione had a momentary urge, quickly stifled, to wave a hand in front of his face to see if he would blink. To stop herself from giggling at this incongruous thought, she quickly began speaking again.  
  
"I'm here in the dungeon with you, because you asked me for a yes – no answer to a question that doesn't  _have_ a yes—no answer. At least it doesn't for  _me_. But I did think you deserved an answer, even if it isn't one of the ones you specified. And I thought I deserved a few answers, as well. Or at least a general clearing of the air. Severus, are you going to say anything at all? This is starting to feel silly."  
  
"I think you've been quite silly all along, actually." Snape happened to glance down at Hermione's hands, which were nervously worrying and plucking at something half-wrapped around the fingers of one hand. With a mild start, he recognized the black suede band of the collar; she was turning the silver charm first one way, and then the other, the fretful motions of her hands belying the serene mood her voice conveyed. "It was a simple question, it  _does_  have a yes or no answer. You're simply trying to avoid giving me your yes or no." Yet even as he spoke, he felt strangely heartened by the furtive indecisiveness in Hermione's hands, and the fact that her talisman was the particular object at issue.   
  
Attempted calm notwithstanding, Hermione could not keep the hint of irritation from her next remarks; she was growing annoyed and impatient with Snape, as she knew she must at some point, and hiding her irritation had never come easily to her.   
  
"Severus, I've already told you, this is  _not_  a yes or no question  _for me._  I know it is one for  _you_ , otherwise you wouldn't have asked me." She had begun twisting the thin suede band over her hand, and the imprint of her knuckles showed clearly through as she clenched her fingers into a fist without realizing it. "But don't you see that it isn't one for you, either, not really? It isn't really what you want. Even if I said yes, even if I put this on right now, that wouldn't make things right. It wouldn't be sustainable, Severus, and I think you know that. It would be doomed from the start."   
  
"Sustainable?" His own temper rising, he dropped his arms and slammed ungracefully into the armchair opposite her. "Like a resource? Like a society? I was asking for sex, Hermione, not a bloody economics lesson." Petulant as a teenager, he slung himself sideways in the chair, wishing he could take back what he had just said.  
  
In the pause that followed, Snape could almost hear Hermione's effort not to say, "You've been asking people about me." Indeed, her lip, caught firmly between her teeth, seemed poised to begin forming those words. But she bit it back, literally, and instead went on as though he had never spoken.   
  
"If I said 'yes' to you on this basis alone, Severus, you would gain one thing you wanted, it's true. You would have a sense of control, and perhaps even of security, because I would have ceded that control to you. My consent would seem like a wholehearted confirmation of my absolute willingness to stay with you. It would seem as though you had managed to take the guesswork and uncertainty out of it entirely."  
  
"Seem like?" he sneered. "You would be lying about it, then?"  
  
"No, of course not. But it would only be an illusion. I would not actually be under any greater obligation to stay than I would under any other circumstances. I would still have volition. It would have just been a sop to your lack of confidence. And do you really want a relationship based on something like that?" Giving him no time to answer, Hermione rushed on, not wanting to lose her train of thought. "What's more, it would basically reduce the entire relationship to the terms you had set, and to just that one area. I mean, really, it would just be about the sex, then, wouldn't it? It's not as though it matters to you if one or the other of us is subservient over, say, dinner. Or while we're sitting here, reading. Just during the sex. It's as if your insecurity has crystallized in that one component of things. But I think there was already more between us than just that one thing. Wasn't there? It's so strange," she mused, "to care so much about that part, when that part seems perfectly able to fend for itself, given time and leeway to do so. Not like emotional intercourse."  
  
"I beg your pardon? Emotional intercourse?  _Really…_ " Snape drawled, "I liked it better when you just said 'fuck' all the time. At least that was vaguely amusing." The recently acquired habit of banter had almost reasserted itself; Snape caught himself, and resumed his sneer. It was too late, however. Hermione, sensing she had got the thin end of the wedge in, pressed her advantage immediately.   
  
"Fuck," she said conversationally. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." When his lips twitched, suppressing a smile, she knew she had gained another inch. "Well, that's all very good and well. As you know, better than anyone, I certainly enjoy  _fucking_  as well as the next girl. However, I happen to value you more highly than to consider you as a mere sex toy. And I value myself more highly than that. Also, I do enjoy a little variety. As for  _this_  pretty little thing—" she unwrapped the collar from her wrist and held it up, contemplating it – "the answer might well be a resounding 'yes' one day, and an equally resounding 'no…  _you_  wear it' the next. But more often than that, the answer would be some as-yet-unknown Secret Option 'C.'"  
  
"And what would that be?" Snape asked, curious despite himself.   
  
"As. Yet. Unknown," Hermione reiterated crisply. "And wouldn't you like to be the  _first_  to know? Of course, then again, Secret Option 'C' might have little to do with sex, and might involve things like housekeeping, or finances, or killing large spiders I don't want to go anywhere near. Having babies, where to go on the long holiday, that sort of thing."  
  
Snape's eyebrows lifted markedly, then lowered into a contemplative scowl. "But sometimes," he said at last, "the answer would be 'yes?'"   
  
"Severus…" Hermione began in a warning tone.   
  
"That is what you said, though, isn't it? Miss Granger?"  
  
It was Hermione's turn to raise her eyebrows in mock alarm. But, although she knew the tide had turned, she still wanted to make sure they were in accord. "Severus, even if it were 'yes,' at any given time, there would still be ground rules. You would still have to do the work. You would still have to find out what was all right, and what wasn't, and do your persuading ahead of time. And know that your persuading might not always work, either."  
  
"So instead of simply  _having_  the sex, we would first have to  _discuss_  the sex? Would that not become logistically tiresome before very long?"  
  
"I'm just saying a girl likes a little warning, my love, before an otherwise mainstream sex act is suddenly interrupted by an, as it were, impromptu down-market interpretation."  
  
Restraining himself manfully, Snape kept his response to a muffled snicker and a smirk that was rather more gleeful than he'd intended. Blushing with the effort not to laugh in response, and with the memory of her own recent "down-market" activities, Hermione hid her face in her hands momentarily, the slender strap of suede dangling down unnoticed.   
  
She did notice, however, when a crisp flicker of magic crept over her hand, and the soft warmth of the suede was replaced by the serpentine coolness of silver links. Looking up, startled, she nearly dropped the fine chain from which the little charm now dangled.   
  
Snape rose from his chair, took the chain from her gently, inspected it for a moment, and then held it towards her again. As she reached for it, he snatched it back, a dramatic look of suspicion on his face.   
  
"You're not  _actually_  going to make me wear it on the 'no' days, are you?"  
  
"What, the collar?" Hermione grinned broadly. "No, of course not. You would make a dreadful pet. And I prefer silk ropes to leather for binding, you know this already."   
  
He held the necklace forth again, then once again yanked it away, even as her hand began to close on it.   
  
"Were you serious about the babies?" He could scarcely have looked more sour, and the word "babies" managed to sound unimaginably revolting, coming from his twisted mouth. But Hermione could see that his expression was  _too_  studied, he looked  _too_  perfectly disgusted; in short, it was a mask, concealing whatever his real feelings were on the subject.  
  
She pursed her lips, considering her answer carefully. "In theory, yes. I've always sort of assumed so. Not right this moment, however. Why? Is it a deal-breaker?"  
  
His hand was already inching back towards her, the swaying fob catching the light from the fire as his face softened in a moment of unexpected candor. "I honestly don't know. I can't look that far ahead. Is  _that_  a – what did you call it? – a deal-breaker?"  
  
"Not right now. I can't really… I'm not looking very far ahead either, just now."  
  
A look of rueful understanding passed between them, as their hands met and twined together over the fine links of the necklace. Trying a new tactic to break the tension, where once he would have relied on the strength of his sarcasm, Severus smirked, and pitched his next remark deliberately low.   
  
"Children…" He shuddered. "A man does like a little warning before  _that_  sort of interruption, my love."   
  
Hermione found herself reaching a hand up, brushing her finger against his lips as if she could feel the texture of his voice. "Really?" she murmured, half-mesmerized.   
  
"Yes, really." He let his lips begin to wander, nibbling at her fingers, pressing into her palm, as he slowly sank to his knees in front of her chair.   
  
"No, I meant… your love? Really?"   
  
"Oh. Well… yes. Really. My love."   
  
She barely noticed that his hands had snuck up behind her neck, securing the chain, as he spoke. "Don't sound  _too_  enthusiastic, Severus. I wouldn't want you to put yourself out," she said sarcastically, provoking yet another twitch of his lips.   
  
"Oh, very well, then. Let me see. How about, 'I do love nothing in the world so much as you: is not that strange?'"  
  
"Better, but hardly original."  
  
"Don't press your luck, Miss Granger." But he spoke lightly, toying with the transfigured necklace with one hand while his other stole downward.  
  
"I always press my luck, Professor," she replied with an saucy grin. "It's part of my charm. Why? Is there something else you'd rather I press?"  
  
"There are a few things  _I'd_  rather press," he said, suiting the action to the word, and enjoying her sharp intake of breath and the sharp peaking of her nipple beneath his hand. "As for you, I hesitate to tell you outright what I want you to press, lest I inadvertently catch you on a non-'yes' day."   
  
"Mmmm…" Hermione tried to focus her attention away from his wandering hands, one of which had worked its way beneath the hem of her robe and was now halfway up her inner thigh. "There will be a 'yes' day… soon… mmm. But for today, it's Secret Option 'C.'"  
  
"I suspected as much." With his face now buried beneath the thick mane of hair over her neck, his voice was rather muffled. "Are you going to enlighten me, or leave me in the dark?" His fingers finally crept to the patch of silk that separated him from his ultimate goal, and he began to stroke the thin, already-damp fabric lightly, almost as if it were absentmindedly.   
  
"Actually, dark might be helpful for what I have in mind," replied Hermione, and with a wave of her wand, she snuffed out all the lights, leaving only the glowing embers of the fire to keep the chill from the ever-damp dungeon room. Another swish had her clothes off, although Snape was surprised to find his own still in place.   
  
With a happy groan at the sudden, unimpeded access, Snape sat up to get a view, albeit a dimly-lit one, of the naked woman in his armchair. She still held her wand, stroking it thoughtfully in a manner that was unconsciously rather lewd. After just a second or two, she made one more motion, muttered one more incantation, then laid the slim wooden rod on the table beside her. The effect of the spell wasn't immediately apparent to Snape, engrossed as he once again was in other activities.  
  
"Secret Option 'C' today is… I want to practice Option 'A.'"  
  
"Shhh, love. Let me… what?" He raised his head and squinted, trying and failing to see her face in the minimal light.   
  
She took one of his hands in hers and raised it to her neck, where, instead of the slender links of silver, he felt the warm brush of suede encircling her throat.   
  
"I want to practice," Hermione said again. "I want you to tell me everything you'd want, on a… a 'yes' day." He heard the unfamiliar waver in her voice, but it took him a moment to identify its cause.   
  
"Hermione… you're blushing, aren't you. Is that why you wanted it dark? Are you embarrassed?"   
  
"No," she lied, unconvincingly.   
  
"Yes," he asserted. Then, after a pause of several excruciating seconds: "You should know that lying is something I would never tolerate… from a pet. You would need to be punished, I think."  
  
A tiny hiss of air escaped her, and they both realized she had been holding her breath.   
  
"Punished?" The uncertainly was there, but a note of clandestine excitement was beginning to make itself heard as well. "And what might that entail, theoretically speaking?"  
  
Lean fingers snaked around her waist, pulling her slowly from the chair to the floor, where they silently encouraged her to get on all fours. "Would you like me to show you?" Snape asked, stroking her bottom with both hands in anticipation, from where he knelt behind her. Experimentally, he grasped her hips and ground his erection against her; even through his clothing, Hermione was able to feel how hard he was, and she smiled despite her nerves, knowing the dark hid her expression.   
  
"No, I want you to tell me," she said, a little more confidently. She leaned back a bit into his hands. "I want you to tell me  _in some detail,_ Severus."  
  
"On such a day, it would be 'Master,' of course. Or 'sir.' Or even 'Professor,'" he mused, as though this last had just occurred to him. "Calling me by my given name would result in further punishment, pet." His hands idly stroked her haunches as he warmed to his subject, sensing even in the dark the effect that his words, his voice, were having on her. "Well, you already know all about one sort of punishment, don't you? I seem to recall your responding quite well to that sort of redirection. Up to a point, that is."  
  
"My mind's a complete blank. Wouldn't you like to refresh my memory?" She rocked back again, then shuddered as one of his hands snuck between her legs and began moving playfully again, barely tickling the ends of the fine hair that guarded her folds.  
  
"I'm talking about the time I spanked your shapely arse until it was as red as the Gryffindor banner, if I recall correctly," said Snape bluntly, patting the arse in question with his free hand. "To which you responded by writhing in my lap and begging me to let you come."  
  
"Oh, was that what I was begging for? And here I thought it was for—"  
  
"Shhh, I'm just getting started." He dipped a finger inside her, wetting it, and started to tease her clit, just barely brushing it and then retreating. "You know, I think you should be the one doing this."   
  
As he pulled away, Hermione cried out in protest.   
  
"If this were a 'yes' day," he went on blithely, "at this point I would not ask, but simply tell you, to roll over onto your back with your knees spread for me."   
  
After a moment of being startled, Hermione complied, grateful for the thick sheepskin that covered the cold stone flags of the floor, and grateful too for the near-darkness that cloaked her in her new, very exposed position.   
  
"Spread your legs further apart," Snape said, then quickly added: "I might say, for example." He sat gracefully on the fleece, then, just between her parted thighs, but made no move to touch her. "Just as I might tell you to start playing with your breasts."  
  
"As a  _punishment?_ " she asked skeptically.  
  
"Oh, no," he assured her. "Just because I find it extremely arousing – and, I might add, educational – to watch you touch yourself. And if we were really doing this, it would be in full light, by the way. Although I do like what little I can see right now."   
  
Hermione had brought both hands up to cup her breasts, and was letting her fingers trace lazy circles over her already erect nipples.   
  
"If I were really interested in punishing you, I would probably be speaking a lot less. Don't think I don't know what this is really about. Voice slut."  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Hermione said smoothly, her hands never pausing in their tantalizing maneuvers.   
  
Snape sighed heavily. "More lies. Which brings us back to the question of punishment. Where was I?"  
  
"I was writhing in your lap," she supplied helpfully.   
  
"Ah, so you were, so you were. Quite deliciously, too. But then you grew… disobedient, didn't you?"  
  
"Did I?"  
  
"You did. You denied me something I wanted. Very disobedient, indeed. Although I let it slide at that particular time, of course." Hermione's hands had begun to wander south, and Severus was quick to spot the motion. "You would need to ask permission to do that, my pet."  
  
"I would, would I? Something like 'may I touch myself anywhere I like?'"   
  
"Not nearly explicit enough, and you didn't address me properly."   
  
He really was dangerously good at this game, Hermione realized with something bordering on proprietary smugness. That voice… she found herself automatically starting to obey, even when the parameters they had established didn't call for it. Needing to regain a hint of control, she slid her hands down further, and began circling her clit with one tapered finger before she spoke again, flippantly.   
  
"How about, 'Master, may I touch myself  _down there_?"   
  
His rather rude snort was followed by a long-suffering sigh. "Miss Granger, your feeble jesting misses the point entirely. What a slow pupil you're making in this subject. If I were indeed your Master, that would carry with it a certain responsibility, would it not? The duty to see that your every need was met, that your welfare was seen to, in the assumption that you had given its keeping over to me fully. And if I don't know  _precisely_  what you intend on doing with your hands, I can hardly make an informed decision as to whether or not it will be in your best interest to continue."  
  
"Oh, that's  _so_  altruistic."  
  
"Hermione… every game has rules."  
  
"I'm not actually very good at games," she admitted, her hands stopping.   
  
"You would enjoy becoming good at this one. And you were the one who asked to practice playing it, after all. Now, again, please. Be very precise. I know you're good at that. And I won't let you do it, otherwise. Besides," he added in a whisper, "your voice can be every bit as arousing to me as mine is to you."  
  
Hermione digested that bit of information for a moment, then set her mind to the issue of precision. "I want… "  
  
"May I," he interjected sternly.   
  
"May I… start stroking my… " She trailed off, frustrated at her own inability to form what was, after all, a simple enough request.  
  
"Nose? Elbow? Left shoulder blade?"  
  
"Clitoris!"  
  
"Ah. That does make more sense."  
  
"With my fingers. Master."   
  
"Brava, pet, brava. Yes, you may. Lightly, however, and slowly. Just enough to tease. Anything else?"  
  
"Yes, sir… may I… oh, for Heaven's sake, Severus, I don't know how to turn that into a request. I want to finger-fuck myself."  
  
His howl of laughter was oddly reassuring. Hermione looked up to see he had collapsed backward on the sheepskin and was clutching his sides as he tried to regain some semblance of his usual control.   
  
"Today," he said finally, weakly, "you may do whatever you like, of course. But on the night, you know, you'll have to master enough grammar to turn it into a question. To which," he went on, rising to his knees again, "the answer would be no, you may not. You may fondle your labia, massage your clitoris, do whatever you like along those lines. As long as you get my permission first. Each and every time. Until you're no longer embarrassed to ask. But no orgasm, and no penetration, my pet. Those two areas are to be under my exclusive control, unless I say otherwise. Everything inside you is mine." He folded his hands over hers and guided her to begin moving them again, noting with some satisfaction that she did not slide her fingers inside herself, even after he pulled his hands away.  
  
"Furthermore," Snape said, after watching her for another few seconds with growing appreciation, "my own preference in the matter is that I be able to take you in whatever manner I like. Don't stop," he urged her, when she seemed about to do so. He slipped his hands down her inner thighs and rested them on hers again, relishing her tiny growl of frustration as he let his fingers graze against the skin just above the start of the delicate crease where her hands were currently occupied. "So I think you need to tell me now if there's a line you don't want me to cross. Because the next time you put that thing on, I won't ask first. Anything not explicitly excluded now  _will_  be permitted, or there will be consequences.  _Don't. Stop._ "   
  
"I don't  _want_  to stop. And you can do anything…"  
  
"You've said that once before, and it wasn't the truth."  
  
"I know. I know…" she said softly, almost whispering, torn between her rising desire and the need to reassure him.   
  
"So aside from – that – is there anything else that I must know about? Do you want a safe word? I'm not really interested in causing pain for its own sake, that's  _not_  my cup of tea. There would never be anything more than the sort of thing you already know about."  
  
"So it's just about control, then, not sadism?" She didn't mean it to come out sounding as sarcastic as it did.  
  
"No. It's about trust." He said this very carefully, as though he had given it a lot of consideration. Hermione did stop, then, and tried to read his expression in the darkness; he seemed lost in thought, and had stopped watching her, staring instead into the nearly-dead embers as though they held some secret meaning for him. "It's about the idea that somewhere, despite the horrible life I've largely led up to this point, there would still be one human being on this earth who knew everything I'd done, but still trusted me completely. Was willing to put, not just their life, but their quality of life, into my hands, even just for a little time. Someone who actually trusted – depended on –  _me_  to make them happy. To make them feel good." Realizing that Hermione was now sitting up, staring at him, Snape ducked his head, turning slightly away. "And the spanking and so forth, well, that's really just for my own amusement."  
  
"Severus… I didn't want to stop. But this time I really did mean you can do anything. Well, all right," she demurred, "I'd prefer not to be gagged, quite obviously. I don't want to be struck in any other way than spanking. And if you must tie me up I'd like for it not to be too tight, because that just hurts. If something feels wrong, I'll just tell you to stop, and I won't tell you to if I don't mean it. And I sincerely hope you're not going to propose anything that involves knives, or whips, or silly costumes, or anything like that."  
  
"No, no, nothing like that. If you cannot feel the other person with your own hand, what would be the point? And I've had quite enough of costumes. But, ah… back to that first thing you were saying. Am I to understand that your definition of 'anything' has undergone a substantive change since last you told me this?"  
  
Hermione glanced at the red glow in the fireplace, then up into the shadow-shrouded ceiling, then over at the unreadable books in their cases, and spoke only after exhausting these potential sources of interesting views.   
  
"That would be a not inaccurate assessment of my current standing on that issue, yes."  
  
"I see." And indeed, with his eyes now adjusted to the dim ember glow, he could actually see quite a bit; the fact that Hermione was still naked (but for the collar) had never fully escaped his awareness, and the subject matter of their conversation had done little to alleviate his considerable tension. Neither did the view he now had of her.  
  
Without intending to, she had adopted a pose that was oddly in keeping with the collar, and that was unintentionally alluring. She sat on her heels, her knees together demurely, her naturally good posture asserting itself so that her upper body was erect, her shoulders back. Because she tended to fidget when she was nervous, and her current nude condition left little fodder for this activity, she had reached behind herself to play with her toes, and this threw her chest out further still.   
  
"You stopped," Snape pointed out. "I told you not to, pet. If we were actually doing this, you would be in for some repercussions." It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. Then, as she started to lay back down, he stopped her. "Just where you are will do quite nicely, little one. But with your knees apart, of course. So I can watch." Getting to his hands and feet, he crawled lithely in front of her, admiring the slide and fall of her hair on her shoulders, captured in the red light as she turned her head to watch him.   
  
With a nudge of his hand, he widened the space between her legs until he was satisfied with her stance. "Very nice. Suppose I suggested you continue now, and don't stop until I say you can." To his surprise, Hermione wordlessly began touching herself again, her lips parting as her breath quickened almost instantly with renewed need.   
  
When she did speak, her voice sounded thick, drugged with lust, and Snape had to stoop closer to hear her. "Tell me what else you want – you would want me to do. If we were actually doing this…"  
  
"Wouldn't you rather just actually do this, pet?" He was leaning close enough to smell her arousal now, and whispering seductively in her ear. "Don't you want to now, little one, don't you just want me to tell you what you may and may not do?"  
  
"I want…" Trembling, Hermione closed her mouth again, but never ceased the agonizingly slow play of her fingers on her flesh.   
  
"Hermione," murmured Snape, trailing his lips down her neck, circling her on his hands and knees like a prowling animal, "sometimes it isn't about my being in control, or about trust. It can be about you  _not_  being in control, for once." He felt her tense up, her breath hitch inward, and he knew – just as she had known of him earlier – that he had said the necessary thing, that he had an advantage he could press if he wanted to. But he knew, too, that to do so would be unwise.   
  
"Just tell me what you want, Hermione."  _A 'yes' day, tell her she wants a 'yes' day,_  his brain chanted at him, but he resisted. "Do you want to direct the outcome? Know everything that's going to happen, plan it all out thoughtfully? Or try another way, just to try, just tonight? An experiment, if you will. Give away your control, and see what you might gain in its place?" He had worked his way back around, and now sat directly in front of her, his lips brushing hers with feathery kisses, tasting her anxiety.   
"Tell me what you want," he repeated. "I love you, I'll do anything you want."  
  
"I want…" she was almost sobbing, now, and he soothed her lips with his, with whispered comforts. Her hands still moved, but more sporadically, reflecting her distraction, even as her voice reflected her frustration. "I want  _you_. And I want to come, it's… please? I don't know what else, I just want that."  
  
Smiling in the dark, Snape felt a surge of passion, which was not at all evident in his silky response to Hermione's plea.   
  
"No," he said casually, and pulled her hands out of her lap.  
  
"Severus!"  
  
"I beg your pardon?" He held his breath, and her hands, awaiting her response. He realized he was trembling almost as badly as she was, and was about to pull her closer, to tell her they could play later, when he was stopped short by her soft but determined answer.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir. May I come… Master? Will you make me come? Please?"  
  
If Snape hadn't already been sitting, he might easily have fallen over in that moment. Partly from shock, and partly because most of the blood in his body seemed to run straight to his penis in a matter of seconds.   
  
"No," he repeated automatically. "Not yet."  _Why the bloody hell not, Snape?_  some part of his brain asked, incredulously. He told it to piss off. If this turned out to be his only opportunity to play this particular game with this particular woman, he was damned sure going to make it worth his while.  
  
Hermione was still sitting patiently, watching him. Waiting, he realized, for instructions. For guidance, he thought, suddenly acknowledging the weight of the responsibility he'd made mention of earlier. This needed to be worth her while, as well. The sight of her kneeling there, still breathing rapidly, her hands hanging loosely by her parted thighs, was suddenly not quite enough. Snape silently flicked his wand toward the fire, which burst back into life and warmth. In the brighter light, he relished the view of her flushed cheeks, the way the silver tag on her collar caught and reflected the flames as it moved gently with each ragged breath. Letting his eyes slip lower, he couldn't resist taking one firm nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling it lightly to see her reaction.  
  
Bringing his hand down slowly, he traced a line straight down her stomach to her quim, which he noted was also flushed, as well as sopping. With no preamble, knowing full well how cruelly it would tease her, he thrust his forefinger between her parted, glistening labia. When she whimpered, he pulled out, and immediately pushed the moistened finger into her open mouth, pumping it slowly there, as he knew she had been aching for him to do below. She suckled her own juices from his finger, too eager for the slightest contact to protest.   
  
Standing up at last, and discreetly adjusting his trousers to avoid painful compression of his erection, Snape sat back down in the armchair closest to him, and gestured to Hermione with a wave.  
  
"Right, then. Come over here, pet."   
  
Something told Hermione to try crawling the short distance and then kneeling in front of him, between his knees, and she was pleased with his response when she did so. For the barest of moments, his reserve abandoned him, and he stared openly, hungrily.   
  
"Very good, little one. You're learning. Perhaps I won't have to punish you after all, for addressing me in such a familiar way. Provided, that is, you behave and mind your tongue from now on?"  
  
"Yes, sir." Hermione found, to her surprise and slight dismay, that this manner of response was growing easier each time. She was somewhat reassured that she still had a burning desire to know what Snape had planned, that her need to control things was evidently still quite intact, if terribly frustrated at the moment.  
  
"Or perhaps I will still find that you need such a reminder, to be kept in line. For the moment, however, I have a better way to make sure you're minding your tongue." Swiftly unbuttoning his trousers, he freed his beleaguered erection, unable to suppress a groan of relief as he did so. It was a peculiarity of their relationship thus far, that Hermione had never actually given Snape head, aside from the occasional teasing suck or lick on the way to something else. If anything, he had seemed inclined to avoid it. Now, lacing one hand into her curls, he tugged her head gently down into his lap, using his free hand to guide his engorged member to her lips.   
  
Hermione slipped her mouth over the slick, darker skin of his head, and let her lips play down slowly to where the looser, softer foreskin encircled him. When she licked at the tender flesh, Snape moaned wordlessly, loosing his grip on her, to begin stroking her face and hair fondly with both hands. Encouraged, Hermione started to take him deeper into her mouth, rubbing the sensitive underside of his shaft with her tongue. He was too large for her mouth to accommodate completely, and she began using her hands to stroke and caress the exposed remainder of his organ, as she bobbed her head up and down more and more rapidly.   
  
"Good girl," he crooned, and his praise spurred Hermione to even greater efforts to please him. With one hand, she began gently teasing his sac, timing her movements to alternate with the increasingly firm press of her lips and nimble tongue up and down his turgid length. Her other hand grasped his base firmly, fingers spread to cover as much of the smooth, warm skin as possible.  
  
Snape was rapidly beginning to lose his composure. It had been many a year since he'd been on the receiving end of such enthusiastic attentions –  _Oh, all right, never,_ he admitted to himself.  _And I had no idea she would be_  that _talented at it_  – but he still had other plans in mind for the evening, that would be spoiled if he let her continue.  
  
With regret, then, he said, "Now, stop."   
  
When, to his mingled pleasure and dismay, Hermione kept right on going, in fact with more vigor, Snape nearly lost it entirely. "Stop!" he repeated, and gripped her shoulders. Her mouth still engulfing him, Hermione stilled her head, and looked up at him to gauge what he might do next. Experimentally, she flexed her tongue up against his glans, and hummed for a moment. The look of unbridled lust was as rewarding as the sharp, reflexive twitch of his penis.   
  
" _Bad_  girl." Frowning, he used his fingers to open her mouth further, freeing himself safely before addressing her again. "That was  _extremely_ naughty of you, pet." She pouted deliberately, and the motion of her reddened lips was an all too clear reminder of what they had felt like, gripping him, a moment earlier. "Now turn around, get on your hands and knees, and wait there until I say you can move again."  
  
Hermione did so, but silently, hiding her gratified smirk in the curtain of her hair. The smack startled a yelp out of her, and she turned her head to see Snape smirking back from his position directly behind her.   
  
"I believe 'yes, sir' would be the appropriate thing to say."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said meekly, gasping as his hand fell again, harder this time.  
  
"And turn your head back around. I told you not to move until I said you could."  
  
She turned back away from him, and was not surprised by the next sound spank.  
  
"Yes, sir," she cried, belatedly, and received a soft caress down the spine for her self-correction.   
  
"Better… better… but your earlier behavior was still patently unacceptable." He spanked her again, then gently stroked the mark he had made before bringing his hand down on it again twice in rapid succession. Her breath had begun to quicken, he noted, and looking further down, he saw that she was already visibly wet again.   
  
"First things first, my pet. How do you address me?" He let his fingers trail across her buttocks, only just firmly enough to avoid tickling.   
  
"As sir, or Professor. Or as my Master," she said breathlessly, and despite herself, she pushed her hips back into his hands.  
  
"Good, but don't move,"  _smack_ , "unless I tell you to."   
  
"Yes, Master," she said immediately, and stilled herself.   
  
"And what do you do when I tell you to stop doing something, pet? Do you  _keep going_  like a naughty girl, or do you stop at once?"   
  
His hand was already hovering again, and she braced herself, even as she answered, "I stop, sir. But I was enjoying myself," she added, knowing what would happen next.   
  
"My pet, I can see that you will require more additional – training – than I had originally anticipated." He spoke in a near-whisper, but his hand began to fall harder than it ever had, beating a steady rhythm against her already aching nether regions. Every so often, seemingly at random, a stinging blow would fall on her pussy, wringing a cry from her; they both knew that there was nothing random about it, and that neither of them would be able to hold back much longer.   
  
At last, Snape stopped, panting for breath as hard as Hermione was, gripping her hips heavily to hold her still, and himself upright. He spoke smoothly, though, in the same sultry tone with which he might deliver a lecture; Hermione had to admire that little display of self-control, an act of which she knew herself to be incapable at the moment.  
  
"Let's review a few things, shall we?" Snape purred. "When do you enjoy yourself, my pet?"  
  
"Only when you give me permission, Master." Her own voice was hoarse, and shaky; she no longer cared about even pretending to sound calm.  
  
"Correct. And when are you allowed to orgasm?"   
  
"When you say I can, Master."  
  
"Very good. Perhaps sometime tonight I shall let you. Not just yet, however…" He was stroking the tender, bruised flesh of her arse, sometimes letting his hands drift toward her core, but never getting close enough to do more than tease. "And who owns everything inside you?"  
  
"You do, sir," she said instantly, clenching her teeth with the effort not to move, to seek out more contact with those tempting hands, with the prick that still protruded, erect, from his trousers.   
  
"Who is allowed to  _be_  inside you, pet? Who is the  _only_  one allowed to do that?" He leaned over her back, breathing kisses over her ribs, across her waist, along the crest of one buttock.   
  
"Only you, Master. Please…"  
  
"Who is allowed to fuck your pretty mouth, my pet?" he asked insistently.  
  
"Only you, sir."  
  
"And if I were to instruct you to wait beneath my classroom desk one day, wearing nothing but your collar, and suck me to climax when I sat down, while any moment a student might catch you, you would do that, my pet?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Not that I ever  _would_  ask you to do that, mind you, but it's nice to know. I might make you wait for me and do that in my office, after rounds, while I mark papers," he said speculatively.   
  
"Whatever you say, Professor," Hermione said, softly but saucily.   
  
"Mmmm… yes, it would be 'Professor' on that sort of occasion. But back to your lessons. Whose are the only fingers allowed entrance… here?" With two fingers he demonstrated, her passage so wet that he met no resistance. "Remember… I haven't given you permission to move, or to come." He pumped his fingers in and out a few times, gently, as she tightened around him and struggled not to thrust her hips back to meet him.  
  
"Answer me," he demanded after a few more thrusts. "Who is the only one allowed to do this, little one?"  
  
"You are, Master. May I move, please,  _please_?"  
  
"Soon, pet. Very soon," he said soothingly. Pulling his hand away, he reached down and guided himself to her entrance, his prick sliding into her almost as smoothly as his fingers had. He buried himself to the hilt, too quickly to trigger her orgasm, then grasped her hips, holding her still against him. " _Don't. Move,_ " he growled, and felt her shaking with the effort to comply. Her response was whispered, so softly he could hardly hear her.  
  
With a finger still lubricated by the slickness from Hermione's quim, he pressed delicately against the tightly furled bud that peeked so alluringly from between the still-pink cheeks of her arse. To his surprise, he felt the tight little ring of muscle relax almost instantly as he stroked and massaged it; he slipped his fingertip inside her quite easily.   
  
"My pet, have you been practicing?" he asked with an oddly accusatory tone. When Hermione hesitated, he used his free hand to cast another firm slap on one cheek, as he thrust his finger further into her untutored bottom. "No stalling, and no lying," he reminded her, stilling both hands again as he awaited her answer.   
  
"Yes, sir," she whispered.   
  
"Don't do it again," he said firmly, beginning to stroke the skin, so heavily laced with nerve endings, that surrounded his half-hidden finger. "Who gets to do this, pet?"  
  
"You do, my Master. Oh, god…"   
  
"It's the one bit of virginity you have left, pet. And I consider it to be exclusively mine. I don't like to think of anyone else messing about with it, even you." He leaned closer, pushing his finger still further in, until it was nearly fully sheathed, then withdrawing just a little before thrusting forward again. Unable to restrain himself, he thrust his hips forward as well, and heard another little moan from Hermione as she struggled to keep from matching his movements.   
  
"Of course," he said, taxing his control to its limit, "my nefarious plan is to woo you in that way, just as though you were a virgin, and seduce you so thoroughly that by the time I finally take you, you will have been begging me to do so." He braced his free hand against her hip again, pulling back until he was in danger of coming completely unlodged, only the tip of his shaft still embedded within her. "I do so like to hear you beg, my pet. Beg me to let you move. Beg me to fuck you until you come." He   
grabbed her hip and slammed himself into her, grunting with the force of his movement and his need.  
  
She wasted no time, the words spilling out of her in an almost incoherent babble of desire. "Please, Master, please let me move, please fuck me, Master. Oh, god, please, just do anything you want, but let me come. I need to come…" he had reared back again, and now thrust in again, prick and finger both impossibly deep, his hand dimpling the skin on her hip as he pulled her onto him. " _Please, please, please…_ " she whispered, her entire world filled with him, and suspended around her need to hear him grant her this release.  
  
"Move, then. Come for me, pet," he ordered at last, and she did so with a grateful sob, thrusting back as he began to pound into her almost brutally, accepting the rhythm he set and marking each meeting of their hips with a harsh cry. The orgasm overtook her like wildfire, spreading from her core like licks of flame, claiming every inch of her body in spasm after wracking spasm, seeming to go on forever. Some dim remnant of normal consciousness heard, or felt, Snape peaking violently as well, his cries added to hers, his movement becoming erratic. Not until the flex and grip of her walls had coaxed out the last of his seed, and her own shuddering climax had finally begun to subside, leaving her shaking and lightheaded with relief, did she realize she had been calling his name, over and over, as if it were the only word she knew.   
  
Apparently he either didn't notice, or didn't care anymore. For his part, as he held her, pulling her to the floor and wrapping himself around her in a sated tangle of arms and legs, his last waking thought was expressed in a mumble that Hermione only heard because his lips were pressed against her ear.   
  
"Hermione? I'm glad you didn't say 'yes.' I think I'm going to like Secret Option 'C'  _much_  better…"


	24. Epilogue: Anything Goes (Reprise)

Anything Goes (Reprise)  
  
 _(Hear that fanfare? C'mon, sing along! You all know how it goes!)_  
  
In olden days a glimpse of stocking   
Was looked on as something shocking  
Now heaven knows, anything goes!  
  
Good authors too who once knew better words  
Now only use four letter words writing prose  
Anything goes!  
  
The world has gone mad today  
And good's bad today  
And black's white today  
And day's night today  
When most guys today that women prize today   
Are just silly gigolos...  
  
So though I'm not a great romancer  
I know that you're bound to answer   
When I propose, anything goes…  
  
Anything goes, anything goes, anything goes!  
  
  
  
Sir Nicholas had not had a single occasion that night to dwell aloud on his continuing woes with the Headless Hunt. He had been far too busy, the entire evening long.   
"Come in! Come in, and know me better, man!" And another new arrival was greeted by the Ghost of Christmas Present, upon entering the Great Hall at Hogwarts for the Second Annual New Traditional Yule Ball.  
  
Once Dumbledore had sat the ghosts down and read them the story, they had embraced his chosen theme with unprecedented enthusiasm.   
  
Peeves had acquired a set of spectral chains, and was taking unbridled joy at the one-evening opportunity to drag them about the room, clanking noisily, while periodically moaning out a lugubrious "I wear the chain I forged in life…"   
  
Needing neither costume nor direction, the Bloody Baron stuck to the gloomier corners of the room, playing the part he was dead to play. His presence, though never uplifting, was probably instrumental in ensuring that Peeves didn't go too far and begin actually slinging his chains about the persons of unsuspecting revelers.  
  
The Ghost of Christmas Past, cheerfully if rather inaccurately portrayed by the Fat Friar, floated from one conversational group to the next, reminding one and all that the Milk of Human Kindness was now being served at the bar adjacent the Head Table.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"If one more person asks me to say it, I will have to resort to physical violence."   
  
"But Severus, my boy, you're doing a tremendous job! Tremendous! Top me off, would you, there's a good fellow."  
  
Snape poured a large dollop of the thick, creamy liquid into Dumbledore's goblet, and slammed the pitcher back down on the bar hard enough to slosh the contents onto the already-sopping surface.   
  
"Now, now, your shift will be over soon enough. Then I'll be on, and having to say 'Bless you,' and 'A very Merry Christmas to you!' to all and sundry, just as you are having to play your little part now."  
  
A Weasley twin, neither man was sure which, scampered up to the bar, stein outstretched, and waited expectantly with eyes agleam. Snape's own eyes narrowed as he silently poured the "Milk."   
  
"Oh, please, Professor. You know what I want to hear," said the twin with merciless glee.   
  
Knowing there was no escape with Dumbledore at hand, Snape finally capitulated.   
  
"Humbug!" he bellowed, glaring all the more fiercely as the Weasley departed, complimenting both the Professors on their legs as he hove out of sight into the crowd.   
  
"Oh, my boy," chortled Dumbledore over his shoulder as he, himself, departed quickly, "you should have been on the stage!"  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Aren't you going to dance, Hermione?" asked Ginny, knocking back the last of her second cup of Human Kindness. "What is in this stuff, anyway? I feel bloody fantastic…"  
  
"He wouldn't tell me. I hope we don't all have terrible hangovers tomorrow. And no, I think I'll wait a bit. In another half hour or so, Scrooge is supposed to have his revelation, at which point Dumbledore will take over for Severus."  
  
"So who are you supposed to be, anyway?"  
  
"Oh, this? Belle, I suppose. He was mainly concerned with the Ghosts, and with himself and Severus. Is it good? I'm afraid it isn't very historically accurate."  
  
And indeed, Hermione's dress lacked many of the specifics of Victorian evening costume, although the overall effect was more or less there. Floor-length white velvet was accented by black satin ribbon details at the off-the-shoulder neckline; the black trim highlighted the boning in the bodice and the nip of the waist above the slightly dropped waistline. A length of creamy arm showed from the top of each long white kid glove to the bottom of the short sleeves of the gown.   
  
Hermione had twisted her hair into a chignon rather looser than the Victorians might have considered stylish; a few stray ringlets tumbled down, one falling just low enough in the back to conceal the fact that her choker was also hardly the standard Dickensian accessory.   
  
"It's fabulous. You look like a painting. The choker's an especially nice touch." Ginny's eyes scanned the room, seeking and finding Harry. They shared a look, and Harry started to make his excuses to the three young men with whom he'd been talking.   
  
Dean Thomas and Colin Creevey, Hermione recognized. The third was a quite good-looking boy from Ginny's year, whose name she couldn't remember. He seemed to have eyes only for Dean, who in turn was pretending to ignore him. It didn't matter. Hermione knew what they had all been talking about. She could tell from the expressions on Harry's face: first, puzzlement; then, slowly building comprehension; and finally, just before he turned away, pity, verging on condescension. And, as he began to make his way towards the girls, a look of smug triumph that nearly made Hermione applaud.   
  
Ginny had to nudge her in the arm twice to get her attention.   
  
"They finally showed up, Hermione. You wanted to see her, and there she is."  
  
"Is  _that_ The French Girl?" Hermione asked, following Ginny's gaze. "Now  _she_  is truly fabulous. Wow… that must take an enormous effort."  
  
"I don't know. She seems to just look like that all the time. She wakes up looking like that, as far as I can tell."  
  
"It's worse than Fleur, in a way. No Veela excuse, just…"  
  
"Just her," Ginny agreed. "And although she's certainly leading him a merry chase—"  
  
"No more than he richly deserves," Hermione interjected, not unkindly.  
  
"True. But for all that, she is in all other respects such a nice girl. Helps Mum with the dishes, that sort of thing. And so funny. Try as I might, I can't bring myself to dislike her, even if she is Phlegm's friend."  
  
"I thought we said we weren't going to call her that anymore."  
  
The part-Veela in question happened, as the girls looked on, to twirl blissfully by her friend; she broke free from her husband's grasp long enough to fling her arms dramatically around the other girl. Even from a distance, Hermione and Ginny could hear the high-pitched squeals of "Fleur!" and "Lisette!" followed by a stream of rapid, equally high-pitched French.  
  
Bill looked on indulgently, and even shared a few words with his wife's friend. Ron, on the other hand, seemed to lose all his free will, once separated from the embrace of The French Girl. Unattractively slack-jawed, he simply stood waiting for her to return, his only expression one of vague anxiety. When she finally concluded her conversation with Fleur and Bill, and turned back towards Ron expectantly, the relief and gratitude that flooded his face told Ginny and Hermione all they needed to know.   
  
"Better than a potion, that is," remarked Ginny to Harry, who had finally made his way to his side. He looked where she gestured, chuckled, and waved broadly at an oblivious Ron.   
  
"Better than Imperio," he agreed. "Oh, Hermione, I've been meaning to ask you all night. So… why are you wearing a collar, then?"  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Molly and Arthur were cutting quite a rug, and Neville Longbottom looked on with an envious sigh. Where some might see two people trying to put a good face on their final, fading years, Neville, with his straightforward nature, saw something closer to the truth: a couple still deeply and passionately in love, who weren't going out much because they were making the most of the first time they'd had their own house to themselves in roughly three decades. Now, in public, they had trouble hiding the little signs of affection with which they were so busy reacquainting themselves.  
  
 _They're probably shagging like rabbits, every chance they get,_  he mused enviously.  
  
"They're  _so_  sweet. Do you think that will be us, in another thirty years or so, love?" his bride of just under two months asked, as if she'd been reading his mind.   
  
"No question in my mind, darling. Oh, look… he just pinched her bottom when he thought nobody was looking. Oh, yes, that  _will_  be us," Neville whispered confidently in Eva's ear, demonstrating that he already had the prerequisite bottom-pinching skill mastered.   
  
At her squeal of delight, he tugged her closer, sneaking an arm around her waist and whispering in her ear. After an obligatory look of shock, she nodded eagerly, giggling, and let him lead her around the perimeter of the room and out the door.   
  
"It's just down this passageway a bit, and around a few corners," he said, once they were free of the noisy, crowded Hall. "Let's just hope nobody's beaten us to it…"  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Oh, sweet Merlin, Harry, do you suppose they saw us?" Ginny fairly pelted back into the Great Hall, Harry at her heels. As she turned, and they met one another's eyes, they both burst into the howls of laughter they'd been stifling on the way.   
  
"No, no," Harry said finally, gasping for breath and leaning heavily on Ginny for support, "I'm fairly certain neither of them was in a position to notice anything just then."   
  
"Position…"  
  
They both tore into fresh peals of hysteria, catching a few glances from passersby as they wiped the tears from their faces.   
  
"And what a position it was," Ginny finally managed. "I had no idea Neville was that limber."  
  
"I had no idea Eva had such a nice arse," replied Harry frankly, earning a stiff poke in the ribs from his Quidditch-toned fiancée. "Too bad, though… I was really looking forward to reliving some old times, there."  
  
"Yes… but perhaps next year. You know… after Filch has done an entire year's worth of cleaning on that corridor."  
  
"It's a date."  
  
"Of course, there are other corridors, that should all, in theory, be empty of students tonight…"  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"My love! Black becomes you so much better than that awful gray nightshirt and cap. But before you're out of character entirely, would you please say it once more? Just for me?" Hermione couldn't quite quell the giggle that accompanied this request; she knew how his stint as the unreformed Scrooge had galled him.   
  
"I find your behavior inappropriate in the extreme, particularly for a 'yes' day, pet." He was clearly making up for lost sneering time.   
  
"No, no, it's Secret Option 'C,'" she stated firmly.   
  
"Option A, pet, as you well knew when you chose to put this on." He lifted a finger almost delicately to rub at the nap of the collar's soft suede. Behind the sneer, only thinly veiled, lay his frank appreciation for the figure Hermione cut in the white velvet gown; just beneath that lay his obvious interest in getting her to remove the gown in fairly short order, once he'd gotten her alone.  
  
"S. O. C.," Hermione insisted. "I only wore it because it went with the outfit." She pouted a little, deliberately, and ran her fingertips playfully up his chest, which was once again ensconced in fully buttoned black brocade. "Won't you say it? Just this very night, it suddenly become one of my favorite quotes from the book."  
  
"I have another I like better. Would you like to hear that, instead?" Without waiting for her to answer, he leaned in to whisper in her ear, hooking his finger gently around the collar to hold her in place. "'And yet I should have dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest license of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value.'"  
  
When he pulled away, her eyes were closed, the faintest smile on her lips, the faintest flush on her cheeks.   
  
"You saw I'd marked that page," she said finally, opening her eyes and tipping her head back to gaze up at him.   
  
"Does that matter?"  
  
She shook her head, the loose curls at the back slipping further down.   
  
"Your hair's about to come undone completely, my pet. Perhaps we should go back to our rooms so you can repair it."  
  
""They're really more your rooms, Severus," she objected.  
  
"They are  _our_  rooms. They are the Snape quarters. As of roughly three hours ago we are both Snapes, ergo they are  _our_  rooms."   
  
"Only because Albus insisted. It was so silly of him, when we were being so discreet; I can't believe any of the students would have ever caught us, just because Minerva did."   
  
"I think it was really the under-the-desk incident, my pet."  
  
"Well, it  _was_  sort of ill-advised, I suppose; you really didn't fit very well under there, did you?"   
  
"It took a week for the knot on my head to go down, and Poppy still sometimes asks me why I won't just tell her how it happened."   
  
"Lucky for you it was little Duncan Creevey. And now, thanks to his gullibility and my quick thinking,  _all_  the students believe my office desk was simply possessed by an especially malevolent boggart." She thought for a second, then said in a brighter tone, "Severus, if they're  _our_ rooms now, then I can redecorate, can't I?"  
  
"Let's discuss it some other day, pet," he replied, taking her arm and propelling her firmly toward the door. "Some day that isn't a 'yes' day."  
  
"S.O.C. day, Severus," she reminded him.  
  
"Of course… my pet. Of course."

**Author's Note:**

> The song, like all the songs to be used in this piece of fiction, is by Cole Porter. Why Cole Porter, you ask? I suppose it was just one of those things…


End file.
